Her birthday last month was particularly hard. I had a major breakdown the night before, a few during the day, and especially that night. I tried to keep myself busy all day. It was a grading day for the English class I teach. I also transcribe online for people with hearing disabilities. These things kept me fairly busy most of the time, but every time I slowed down like to take a walk or relax at all, my loss, the idea that my baby would now be 12. The feeling someone was missing.
I know she was there, but I don't yet have the spiritual gift to see or hear angels. I have family members who do and who have seen or felt or heard her. My nephew saw her once. My niece saw her another. My husband has heard her voice. I can only hope she's nearby with my other angels. But still, that day is always hard because I can't see her, hear her, hold her.
We always end the day with an angel food cake and a trip down memory lane as we go through her baby book. For a short time, I can cherish those pictures, so her bright blue eyes and vibrant smiles. I can pretend I hold her still. But then, we always get to the end, with pictures of her grave, of her waxen face in a tiny coffin. That's when I always lose it. This time, my body was wracked with sobs, and both my husband and teenage son reached out and held me. It used to freak my boy to see me like that, helpless in a wave of pain. But now he understands, even if his little sister is only a vague memory to him. My other child, meanwhile, won't be anywhere someone is in mourning anymore. Empathy makes others' emotions hard to deal with.
But still, we keep her memory alive as well as we can. I know one day, I will hold her in my arms again. I know we'll be together forever. But for now, I dread that day in March for the reminder of my empty arms.
