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.
((hugs)) to you Carly. Sometimes the memories make me feel like my chest is being completely squashed. Like I don't have any air left to breathe. And then I wonder what the point of breathing is anyway. When my beautiful children aren't here with me. But as you say, life goes on, seemingly boringly normal to everyone else, but foggy and unclear to us.
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