You’re an absence I carry
Moving after my son’s death and it’s hard—although people here know he existed, he’s still an abstract concept to them, only “real” to me.
Moving after my son’s death and it’s hard—although people here know he existed, he’s still an abstract concept to them, only “real” to me.
I am pregnant now, 24 weeks. She is healthy and active, and she brings me joy. And I find that I want to be here, and I want to be her mother. But if something were to happen, and that darkness were to fall again—if TWO of my children were to live beyond my world, I don’t know that I’d survive.
This isn’t the trip I planned for us. I will always wish you were here. Sweet dreams, little one. I love you.
After my son died, I moved to a new city. I took 4 days to make the drive, stopping often to take photos of the scenery. Taking photos was one of the primary ways I dealt with so many changes after his death, and after losing my phone with so many photos of him.
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