That Hush Grief

There's nothing wrong. Except it's Fall, and everything is dying. 700 miles away, a cemetery is having fall cleanup and I am  not there. 700 miles away, early leaves are blowing across a tiny grassy plot and I am not there to pick them up.

That hurts.

I have this beautiful 8 year old girl. I love her so much, my heart hurts. I feel like I know every moment that I am missing with her sister because I am living it. I just want one day with both my girls. Just one. And that's crazy, because one day would never be enough.

I'm far enough out from May 17, 2005 that my grief is no longer the screaming, yelling mess that it once was. Don't get me wrong, I have days where I scream and cry. They are few and far between now, compared to a few years ago.

These days, my grief is quiet, that hush-grief that comes over me like a fog. I can be reading a book or looking at a picture and it will come, and tap me on the shoulder. So polite.

I don't mean to interrupt your day, but....

I acknowledge the hush grief, and most days it gives me my space.

Some days it seriously hurts.

Riley would be nine this year. I picture a serious-looking, dark haired child, with a smile that could light up a skyscraper.

I miss that kid.

She would be a kid now.

Not a baby. A KID.

A scraped-knees, riding her bike too fast, big enough to help with chopping veggies kid.

I miss that kid. I miss her every moment. In the screaming panic attacks, I miss her. In the quiet, reflective moments. Especially in the hush-grief.