Guest Post by Jordanna Cook
The speed at which life continues after the death of a child is astonishing.
Days and nights pass slowly and painfully. Time stands in quiet stillness, though I beg for its merciful passing. Yet somehow weeks, months, and years disappear with brutal quickness. And time breezes by with agonizing ease, though I beg it to pause and remember.
I cannot believe it has been a month. Six months. A year. Ten years. I cannot believe I am still breathing. I cannot believe that I am surviving. But I am. Sometimes I attribute this strength to her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
And although it is hard to believe, it is important to believe.
Sometimes the only that gets me throught the day is the knowledge that I survived the day before. And sometimes, in those moments that steal my breath and stop my heart, I remind myself that there is nothing that I cannot do. After all, I have buried my baby. And surviving that seems like an equalizer of sorts.
There is no moment or day or year that can intimidate me with its promise of pain.
Time can come or go. Quickly or slowly. The fact remains that my baby died.
And the ache that runs through my being will never change.
It is a part of me. It is a part of her, in me.
And that, is a beauty not bound by time.