I keep dreaming about her.
She's alive and healthy and here.
Life is boringly normal. It's nothing exciting, just day to day life stuff but it's all foggy and unclear.
Then I wake up and I swear I've got an actual gaping hole in my chest.
It's tearing apart as I try to breathe.
My world comes crashing down around me as my eyes adjust to the daylight.
It's not supposed to be shocking now, yet it is. It's very real.
I flick on the computer it hums into life and up pops a picture of her feet.
Cute little pink feet bathed in sunlight on a fluffy pink sheepskin rug.
I remember when B took that photo. I was actually out of a hospital bed and in a chair.
I remember the sun out the window.
I remember being humored by the hideous yellow outfit she was wearing.
Then I remember that I once had a little baby girl. I did. I really did.
The hole inside my chest appears again just to let me know that it's real.
This pain is real.
She was real.
I stumble throughout the day trying to keep the hole closed enough for me to breathe.