Grief Journal: Seven Months

I didn’t post on the seven-month anniversary.

It’s not that I forgot. One thing people don’t get is that as a parent, we don’t have the luxury of forgetting, not even for a minute. There are surges of emotion—of love, of longing, of guilt, of just missing him. But those are like waves on the shore of our grief. The water is always there; just different forms. 

The 17th of February was a cold, snowy day. We got dumped with snow. We didn’t leave the house. I, as I do essentially every day, worked. My brain may have been busy, but developing creative briefs and updating schedules isn’t exactly an anesthetic. There’s still plenty of room for the giant throbbing emptiness that fills my heart and soul. Plenty of brain power left over to sing the never-ending refrain, “He’s gone, he’s gone. Oh, my darling son is gone.”

Seven months and one day since I last held him breathing in my arms. It really isn’t any easier. Nothing makes it easier. The dirge that is the background music to my life just keeps playing. 

Worst ear worm ever.

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