In the beginning it was the minutes, the hours, the months.
I tried to remember every detail, the weight of her in my arms, the almost-blue of her eyes, the shape of her eyelids as they closed.
I felt panic rise as the days passed and memories blurred, I couldn’t forget a thing. She was my daughter. I wouldn’t.
Repeating over and over in my mind our short moments, our last day, I hated that the edges of my memory were beginning to blur.
I called the hospital once, over a year after her death, certain they might have one picture of her that we did not.
Praying they had some file containing one more piece for me to hold onto, I waited while the staff found a way to tell me that there wasn’t anything more.
I was left with what I had. Somehow it needed to be enough.
There are still days I comb my brain for those memories, wish for something I might have forgotten, but I’ve made a bit of peace with time and its need to move forward.
I don’t remember my daughter’s live as a before and an after anymore. She’s woven into yesterday and today and is pulling a ribbon of light through tomorrow.
I will always wish for more time, more memories and the childhood she deserved, but I don’t count the months and years so much anymore. They’ve blended into a an appreciation for the gift that was and always will be my daughter.
Her life, so much more a part of mine, than her death.