Hushed Conversations

The conversations a parent should never have are sometimes the hardest. They can often be the calmest, quietest, and most intense...

Me: What are we doing next Thursday?
Puck: I thought we would go clean the gravestones across the street.
Me: Ok. Should I make a cake?
Puck: I don't know, Sweetie. That is up to you.
Me: It's been ten years. I feel like maybe I should.

If you know us personally, you know how incredibly subdued this conversation really is. You also know that Puck is treading very softly across my broken heart. I remember, for the first few years, I felt the need to celebrate, or remember, by making cakes or buying gifts. Every year that has passed I am more deeply swallowed by crippling grief and less accepting of what I used to call fate. This year has been markedly different. Yes, I have cried to the point of being numb, but somewhere, something amazingly beautiful and heart-wrenching has happened. Acceptance.

I suppose it could be simply the passage of time, but I don't think it is that easy. I could attribute it to the changes in me over the last year, but even if they have been huge, I am not banking on that. I am not numb, nor am I unaware of the ache inside me. I imagine that no sooner will I write this, I will break down and have a good ugly cry, but when has that ever stopped me before? Yes, there is an ache, but this year, there is something new. Somewhere in that place, so close to my heart, that I hold my first little girl, is peace. What a strange thing to say, I guess. Losing a child is not something I would wish on anyone.

I guess I have realized, with my grandmother's health, that nothing lasts forever. Nobody wants their kids to go before them, but it happens. When they told me that my grandmother was not doing well and we did not have much time left (though admittedly, she is stubborn and has held out so far), yes, I cried. I then picked myself up, dried my eyes, and accepted it. I know that I will not do well when she does finally go, but that acceptance, I believe, is how I got to this place with my daughter. It is ironic that she is to be buried with my grandmother.

I think I finally realized that I was going to have to let go of the regret and guilt. I still feel guilt, just not for the same reasons I did. I feel guilty for knowing I wouldn't trade everything for her. I feel guilty that I am not in complete pieces over her not being here. I feel guilty that I am ready to finally lay her to rest. Yes, it is still guilt, but it is very different guilt. I don't question why much anymore. I don't think the world is out to get me. Yeah, it's still really unfair, but life isn't fair. I often wonder who she would be, but I don't obsess over what could have been. I regret that she is not here, but know there is nothing I could have done.

My daughter will forever be in my heart. She is part of me. She is still a piece of my soul and always will be. She is NOT a regret I hold, nor is she to remain just a gaping hole inside me. I like to think when I accepted that I finally had to lay her to rest and have only her memory remain, I gave her real freedom. She is no longer burdened with my sense of guilt or remorse over the events that happened ten years ago. Her wings have extended to full length and she is no longer held to me, she chooses to stay with me.

She is my legacy, though no longer here. She is my strength, my peace, and my hope. I will give my daughter something I have never given to her before for her birthday this year. This year, my daughter will be remembered in my heart with joy and blessings. I know that I will be sad, but I also know that by freeing my memory of all the terrible pain and guilt that accompanies her, will be the best gift I can give her. It's time to accept and be at peace. I am alright with that. She deserves it. It's about time I gave her that.