It was in a quiet room, surrounded by silence, that the doctor told us we lost H. So it only makes sense that it's in the quiet moments that it all comes rushing back and any sense of peace that I thought I had found is shattered.
It comes rushing in the dark, early morning hours, when I'm alone in my car and soft music is playing. Walking down a long hallway at the office, in the shower, when I'm falling asleep, when I'm watching C play. Especially when I am watching C play. It hits me all at once that there is one where there should be two. That there will be a hole in our family forever. That all the love and laughter in the world can keep us from falling into the pit, but they will never fill it up. We will always grieve. We will always have that hole and we'll just learn to dance around it. Tentatively and slowly, but someday we will learn to dance around it.
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