Grief has a way...

Grief has a way of blindsiding you, of stepping into your day and turning it upside down; of showing up on your doorstep unannounced, rapping at the door, tapping, insistently until you let it inside, and when you do, it has a way of unleashing itself, of throwing itself onto you and not letting go.

This is how it has felt all month to me and today. An ordinary day, an April 30th, 2008 ordinary day. The three kids are tucked into bed, a cake is in the oven, the dogs are asleep on the floor and there behind the door I have refused to open all day is my grief, rapping harder and harder, pretending to be patient, pretending to be waiting for me as if it's not just going to break the door down and descend on me.

And here I am hiding, amongst my things, hiding behind a screen, in a room filled with papers and books, and dust. Hiding and hoping that eventually the grief will turn around and leave thinking everyone has gone away. But we haven't have we? Here we are, waiting to open the door, hoping at any moment instead of the grief, it will be Grace knocking on the door, running inside at the end of a day, an ordinary day where she might have played with friends, where she might have made a mud cake, climbed over sleeping dogs only to knock after her friend's mother has brought her home, only to say, "Here I am mommy, don't cry, here I am."

Only to say, "It's me, and I will grow up and be your daughter and find a love in my life and have children and you can see them and hold them and love them and they will have cousins and I will still have one sister and two brothers and the four of us, we will all be here with you and I will hold your hand when it's your turn to be held and I will still be here and I will still be here."

What if you could...

What if someone told you that you could see what your child, though dead, would look like at 2 years old, at 5 years old, at 8 years old, at 12 years old, at 18 years old. Would you do it? If all you had was a picture of your baby at birth and her eyes were closed and you never saw her grow and you never saw her blink and you never saw her climb a tree or ride a bike or run on the soccer field or chase her brother and sister but you saw her lying, unmoving, would you want to know what she might have looked like? Would you want to see her with eyes staring at you, with hair falling over her shoulders, with lips curled up into a smile. Would you? What if you could? Would you do it? Or would you sit around too frightened by what the possibilities could have been...

"I love me"

Tonight, Sawyer and Terry picked me up from work and on the way home, Sawyer said, "Mama. I love me." It was sweet, genuine and a matter-of-fact.

And then he said it two more times when we got home. And I thought, of course, he loves me and he loves him and he loves you. He is a love machine and he is not old enough to have that sense of lovelessness.

How lovely.

And I love him too but what about me? How often do we really think or feel love toward our own self? Probably not as often as we should. And I wonder if we really loved ourselves more, if that love wouldn't transfer out into the world.

And without getting too sappy what's wrong then, when our love continues after death. When that love sometimes makes us incapable of doing anything else. Sometimes, still, I am frozen by my love of Grace. Not very often any more; mostly it's love that creates movement but sometimes, every once in a while, it freezes me, it stops me, it takes my breath away and I have to compose myself again. I am awed by the power of this love. I am in wonder. "Mama. I love me."