I’m just feeling it tonight. The heaviness of your absence. I’m wearing it on my chest where your sister lays her head. The six pound, one ounce hole of your life.
She’s so fun, Sam. So fun. And beautiful. Every day I thank God for both of you. For the time I’ve been allowed to mother the two of you.
And some days, like tonight, the grief comes crashing in like the steadiness of a wave. I find myself more observing my feelings than actually feeling them. I suppose time has granted me a perspective on grief.
I could feel the waters rising all day. My body does something when it misses you deeply. I still feel it in my bones. Instead of curling up in bed, under the covers, covered in tears, I find myself just sitting with the pain. Wondering what it is that’s made me feel the depths of you tonight.
It is because your sister is so alive and present in our lives that now I really see your absence? I pray over her each night. I thank God for allowing me one more day to mother her in person. I cry out to him in silence to allow me a long lifetime of one more days with her. Because I couldn’t bear it otherwise.
Grief gets me like that. Worried about the future. Worried that all the good might one day be taken away from me yet again.
Fear. It can cripple us if we let it. So instead of being overcome, I sit with it. Acknowledging it’s presence in my heart. Creating space for it. But only for awhile. I will not allow the fear to stay.
Life is too beautiful. But it’s okay to give myself permission to mourn. To feel the emptiness of your body close to mine. I will always make space for you in my soul. And tonight, I feel you.