This Time of Year

I don't often talk about the past because I believe that what has come before is or was just a stepping stone to the future and present that I love, but this time of year does something to me. May is a month of memory for me. As the years roll on and the day I lost my daughter gets further away, the memories become less focused on the single tragedy and more on the bigger picture. I find myself sitting on the corner of memory lane, holding my daughter in my arms, and talking with the loved ones that I have lost, either by death or just plain time.

It has been ten years. A decade has gone by since my life forever changed. When I think about that as a whole, I realize how short life really is. I know that I learned that lesson the hard way lying on that ultrasound table, listening to the doctor telling me that my child's heart was no longer beating, but ten years? That is an incredible amount of time to me. It seems like yesterday. When I was pregnant with her, she represented my hopes and dreams. When the doctor told me she was gone, they all seemed to slip away. I never thought I would recover. Grace was all I could see for so long. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. It was terrible. For all the pain I was feeling at the time, I never saw the damage my mental absence was doing to my young son. I have spent years repairing that, but needless to say, the loss of my daughter was a turning point for me.

For years, I spent the entire month of May crying over that loss. I was careful not to completely lose it in front of my other children, but there were nights I spent crying in the closet, the garage, even the bathroom floor. As time dragged on and the pain became something bearable, other memories starting creeping to the surface. Other faces that I loved and lost started mingling with the pain of her. She is always in my mind, but these new faces, they are there now too.

The first boy I ever really loved. Funny that that person isn't the one I would have named 15 years ago, but true none the less. The boy that was always there. Only male witness to my attempt at flying through a window, even if it was on the phone. The one who was always there for me when life seemed to hard. Carefree attitude and crazy hair. The one that mattered. He was the boy that made me believe in miracles and fate. He walked my dreams and asked the hard questions. During my first marriage, the only boy who told me he loved me on a regular basis, on those nights he would waltz into my mind. The boy, that from the first moment I kissed him, I knew it was different. I will always remember him as the boy whose kiss made the rain fall, literally. Our first kiss and our last started rainfall on a sunny day. He was that special. He was the amazing man taken from the world, and his own young child, at the tender age of 22. I thought of him tonight.

My best friend for 4 years, and sometimes my only friend. The girl who knew all my secrets. The shoulder I cried on when things got too hard with my ex. The ice cream nights and Chad Michael Murray dreams. The karaoke that was so wrong it was right. I didn't lose her to death. I lost her to a difference in ethics. I speak to her now and again, but it isn't the same. My heart aches for her. I miss that friendship. I wish that things were different, but we all make choices, and she made hers when she chose not to support my decision. It didn't harm her in any way, she just couldn't handle it.

And of course, there is always my daughter. Forever on my mind is my butterfly princess. The little girl that couldn't wait to meet her mommy. She just tried too soon. My goodness, she was beautiful. So tiny and perfect were her little fingers and toes. Even at the smaller size that she was, she looked just like her brother. I often wonder who she would be today, had she been given the chance to grow up. I will never know that. I accept that fact, but I don't like it. She was my baby girl. I still cry at the injustice of her death. I still blame myself sometimes, but after ten years, mostly I just hurt. I love her as much as I love the children that are here in this world with me, even after ten years of not being able to see her or touch her. I always make sure to tell her.

A decade of loss and sorrow. A decade of crying and death. It doesn't feel like it, but it has been that long. It brings me to my knees less often, but it hurts more every year for a shorter amount of time. I hate that she isn't here, but I can't change that. What I can do, is live on and do my best to show her brother and sister the joys of life that she never got to see. And I do, or at least I try to. I hope my daughter is looking down at me from somewhere and saying, "Yeah, that is my warrior mom. She did all she could for me, and in my absence, she is doing everything she can for them." That's what I dream of. After a decade, that's my greatest wish.