On loss.

I'm feeling...what? What is this?

Sad. Achey. Sympathetic. 

A dear lady, a 'dear heart' has passed in my hometown. 

An echo of my father, a fellow ARMY buddy, has succumbed to cancer. 

A sweet friend's sister.

An accident taking two cyclists.

Parents of my friends.

Babies too.

It's hard to know what to say, other than the most unhelpful understatements.

This sucks.

I'm so gut-wrenchingly sorry. 

And to think on some advice I've been given:

Don't be strong if you don't want to be.

Scream.

Shout.

Cry.

Really, ugly cry.

Throw things. 

Or don't.

You might feel resentful of the fact that everyone's life is still churning on.

Or not.

It's surprising, and can be a bit hurtful that the universe doesn't stop when your own personal sphere has been shattered. 

People are going to say stupid things. I'm sorry. 

Remember your loved one in the best way. Keep those memories in the forefront of your mind. Dismiss the way the funeral home puts on the terrible bright pink lipstick. 

This is going to hurt. For a long time.

I'm so sorry. 

Ghosts will pop up, for every anniversary, every birthday. Every wedding. That's not always a bad thing. But it is a hard thing.

And if you need someone to come and sit by you and cry with you, I'm here.

If you need someone to not say anything at all, but fetch you hot tea, I'm here. 

If you want to be alone, that's fine too.

Don't let anyone tell you how you're supposed to be feeling. 

Don't be afraid to laugh too.

You're probably feeling it all.

March Winds: being a Mom to Arianna

It's 4 AM. And you're turning, twisting, rolling over me in your sleep. I try my hardest to catch you in my arms, and hold you close. You are not a cuddly baby. You have always wanted to move.

In the brief moments of rest, I stare at your long lashes and think about how long, how tall, how big you're getting. Each second your cells are regenerating, and you are growing, and growing away from me.

10 months old, soon to be 11. Everything is new and exciting. This does not help your sleeping.

You move again, turn over and try to get situated in a different crevice of my armpit. I try to encircle you with my arms, to keep you from tumbling off the tall bed.

You are a pink kite, trapped for a moment in the branches of my tree, while the March winds blow on.

You are the insatiable pachyderm, pulling all the laundry out of the basket, finding every dirt spec and plastic tag on the carpet.

You are the bouncy, crazed March hare, wriggling, refusing to be held. You have to go, go, GO!

You dance, one arm on the couch, the crib, or me. Not quite ready to let go, but so so close.


And as your 1st birthday approaches, I think about how much you change, every night. More hair. More sparkle of understanding in your eyes. More teeth!

And I can't stop the clock! My tiny baby is gone. You are inching, quickly towards toddler-hood.

Outside the daffodils are about to burst. The grass is turning greener. The forsythia is out! We are hurdling through space, around the sun. More growing. More change.

I will try to teach you in the sweet quiet times. And I will try to teach you as you blur past me like a fiery comet.

 I will try to hold on for the ride of my life.