Woven

March 21, 2013

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.

still standing quote

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.

 




  • Jessica Watson is the stay-at-home mom to five, four in her arms and one in her heart. In 2007 she lost her infant daughter, one of triplets, and has been writing her way through the pain ever since. She is a freelance writer with a passion for grief support and working with special needs families. Jessica blogs with her heart on her sleeve at Four Plus an Angel.

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