I’ve been in a mood this past half year. Partly out of necessity, partly as the only way I knew how to fight, to make my time stand still.
I miss my son. I miss him every day. I hold on to my grief because I can’t hold him.
I fight against happiness. I think that if I let myself smile, I will lose sight of my grief. I will lose him. Again.
I think of the moment at the hospital, the first time I said the words. “I’m having a miscarriage.” My son is dead. I think of the stranger who held my hand, who brought me a wheelchair, who said a prayer.
There is so much beauty in the world. There are so many people who want to help. There are genuine reasons to be happy, for a moment; an hour; a day.
I hold on to my grief, it is part of me. I will never not wish my son was here. I will ever and always feel incomplete, broken. My happiness lives in deeper layers.
My happiness exists.
I hold on to my grief. I hold on to love. I hold on to music and beauty and sadness and sometimes I smile. My happiness exists.
Pandora opened the box and everything but hope escaped. I carry it with me. I carry him with me. I carry all of you.
I love you.