This time last year, I was still pregnant. This time last year, I was probably settling down on the couch with Netflix and thinking about you. I was always thinking about you. I don’t know how to face these first realities. I don’t know how to face these days when it comes so strongly home to me that you didn’t.
I bought myself flowers and looked for cards. I wished somebody had remembered. And it hurts all over again, and I love you, and I miss you. And I’m learning what it’s like to be a mother in silence.
This time last year, I was happy and naive. This time last year, it’s possible you had already started to die.
I miss you with the parts of me that can’t forget that wordless keening. I miss you with all parts of me. You live inside my bones.
