Three years ago the nursery was all set. The sheets were on the crib, the tiny clothes folded and in the drawers. The car seat installed.
I was excited about the future then. I believed that good things happen to good people (or people who try their best to be good anyway). I believed that our future was blessed. I believed in God and mercy and the power of positivity and prayer.
Three years ago, I woke up excited about the future. Then the rug was pulled out from underneath me.
My world was shattered and while we've managed to haphazardly glue the pieces back together the cracks still show. The tears seep through them now and again. The fissures and breaking points are always there, just underneath the surface. You can see them when you look closely enough, they are there in the extra wrinkles and gray hair. In the haunted eyes that don't quire smile the way they used to. They are there in laughter cut short out of guilt, in walls surrounding our fragile hearts. Like a phantom friend, always tagging along.
Three years ago I woke up as a mother. By nightfall I was a grieving mother.
** Side note** There is no word for a parent that lost a child. That's how against nature it is to bury your daughter or son. If you lose a spouse you are a widow/widower. If you lose your parents you are an orphan. If you lose a child you are without description.
