Shift
You keep changing on me. Every time I get used to where you fit in my life, something shifts, is it me? Am I the one who’s changing? I can’t tell. It used to be such a constant. I was just sad all the time, I missed you and it was so easy to identify. I missed you with intensity because you were stolen from me. I was sad and I was angry, left to raise our kids and watch them grow without you. I felt a hole in my heart that I grew to accept as a part of me.
As time passes, the empty hollow feeling seems to come and go rather than persist. It hangs in the background and I am able to brush it aside with less effort than before. I feel as though there are times when I can choose to be sad rather than have those times choose me. Have I just learned to wrangle this grief or is it really, truly fading? The answer to this question changes depending on what challenge I face today or the next.
Each time I watch our children do something amazing, whether it be Noah printing his name for the first time or Audrey dancing in a recital I am caught between two opposing feelings. At first, my heart feels heavy and aches because you aren’t here to witness them; your absence is never forgotten. Sadness still creeps in when I catch our kids growing before my eyes. Then, I remember the way you used to smile when Audrey did something so ordinary. I remember how Noah’s squeal as a babe made you smile ear to ear, I can picture you clear as day nearly three years since you’ve been gone. You were in awe of our little ones from the day they were born; you cherished them like precious little gifts without any direction from anyone.
This true delight you took in our kids is something that trumps the sadness every once in a while for me. I can’t say I don’t get bogged down by my circumstances because I do (and I vent and I cry). But as time passes, I feel like it’s becoming easier to catch Audrey and Noah being kid-like and to let go of this pervasive gloom that has become a part of me. I try not to forget that you would give anything to have another moment with them; I’m now learning to be thankful that I get to have a lifetime with them.
As time passes, the empty hollow feeling seems to come and go rather than persist. It hangs in the background and I am able to brush it aside with less effort than before. I feel as though there are times when I can choose to be sad rather than have those times choose me. Have I just learned to wrangle this grief or is it really, truly fading? The answer to this question changes depending on what challenge I face today or the next.
Each time I watch our children do something amazing, whether it be Noah printing his name for the first time or Audrey dancing in a recital I am caught between two opposing feelings. At first, my heart feels heavy and aches because you aren’t here to witness them; your absence is never forgotten. Sadness still creeps in when I catch our kids growing before my eyes. Then, I remember the way you used to smile when Audrey did something so ordinary. I remember how Noah’s squeal as a babe made you smile ear to ear, I can picture you clear as day nearly three years since you’ve been gone. You were in awe of our little ones from the day they were born; you cherished them like precious little gifts without any direction from anyone.
This true delight you took in our kids is something that trumps the sadness every once in a while for me. I can’t say I don’t get bogged down by my circumstances because I do (and I vent and I cry). But as time passes, I feel like it’s becoming easier to catch Audrey and Noah being kid-like and to let go of this pervasive gloom that has become a part of me. I try not to forget that you would give anything to have another moment with them; I’m now learning to be thankful that I get to have a lifetime with them.
posted by Leslie | 10:39 PM
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