There's a photo on the mantlepiece with an angel sleeping beside it. There's candles and butterflies and a white picture frame. There's a bedroom upstairs whose door never opens, and in it there's a bed that never gets slept on, toys that will never be played with, clothes that will never be worn, and it smells like her.
If you walked in to my house as a stranger, you would know I have a daughter. There are signs of her everywhere, she is imprinted into the air. But you would also know that my daughter is never coming home. It has been 9 months since she had any hope of coming home. We once had hugs and kisses, now we have silence. We once had stories at bedtime, now we have prayers for strength. We once had laughter and games and presents on birthdays, now we leave flowers on her grave. It doesn't ease, it doesn't change, this overpowering grief remains the same. All that changes is our ability to cope with it.
I am here, writing, in her memory. I am here so that people may understand what it is to lose a child. I am here to get my feelings out, so that I don't have to hold them inside all the time.
I am here because the worst thing that will ever happen in my life, happened. And I need to talk about it, but at the same time I don't know how to talk about it, so I am writing it down instead.
