So, I'm joining on a project over at Still Life With Circles...basically a 'recap' of where I am, this very minute, in my grief.
Eighteen months and nineteen days. 566 days. 80 weeks. 13,584 hours.
Every now and then, I still calculate.
Because I don't really count that way automatically anymore.
I used to. I used to be able to tell how many days, weeks, hours, minutes and seconds it had been since he'd died...and now, I find myself sometimes biting my cheek just a little bit when someone remembers him on the 28th before even *I* remember that it's another month.
Another month without him.
We drove away today. Leaving the house didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. It being empty doesn't even hurt as much as I thought. I still teared up in each room as I walked through with Luke and talk to him about what happened here and there, but overall, I'm handling leaving the house pretty well, I'd say.
It was the driving past the cemetery on our way out that got me.
Leaving his little body there. Still. Always. Forever.
That got me.
My sister and I were talking and she was trying to tell me that I shouldn't feel guilty. I told her I didn't.
And I don't. I do not feel guilt. (This time!)
I cannot control us moving. I cannot control him being gone. I cannot control much of anything. It's not guilt I feel.
It's aching. Longing, really. Just plain wistful and wishful thinking that things were different. That I knew what his smile was like. That I was able to look into his eyes. That he could hear my voice and know it was his mama, and that she loved him more than she'd ever dream she would.
I just wish it was different. I wish my heart didn't still hurt so much, but then there's no way that it couldn't really.
He is gone. My first-born is gone before I really even got to know him.
No guilt. Just longing.
That's where I find myself these days. Not feeling guilty that I adore and revolve my life around Luke. He deserves it. I'm his mother. I should.
Just wishing I'd been able to do that for Matthew as well. Accepting that I never will, and that's just not something that will change or that I can do anything about.
I'd not call this acceptance, per se, in the 'grief process' sort of way because I totally believe that tomorrow, I might feel completely different.
Heck, in 5 minutes, I might. That's just how grief is. Like one of those plastic poppers that you invert and then place on a flat surface---slowly, slowly, slowly it starts to move back into its original position and then--POP! It flies up into the air, out of control and in no particular direction.
But for now, this is where I am. Not feeling guilty. Not feeling raw. Not feeling responsible.
Just missing him.
Always missing him.