God works in mysterious ways

I hated my dad. Loathed him. Anyone who knew me well knew this. And I grew up with 100% certainty that he hated me,too. During my early teen years I would cry to my mother that I knew I was an awful person because I didn't just hate him...I wished he would die. What kind of horrible child wishes that? Clearly, his hatred was warranted-even well deserved. Clearly, I was somehow defective and undeserving of love. At least love from a father because my mother and grandmother loved me and I knew it. I felt it. But my biological father, whom I never met-wanted nothing to do with me. The only dad I knew didn't want or love me either. So, it had to be me.
This could be incredibly long and drawn out, filled with many details and memories of fights, hurtful words and hateful thoughts. But there's no need. Suffice it to say that I was NOT my father's daughter, I knew I wasn't and I was thankful. Because I hated him.
Through the years I found ways to "cope" with the lack of fatherly love, affection, approval, interest, etc. Things that have actually become almost comical now. For instance my favorite sports teams across the board have always been the ones my father hated. And anything he loved I vowed to loathe for all eternity. Golf? I would rather poke my eyes out. The Redskins? Gag. The Reds? Hell no. My favorite was probably our Celtics/Lakers battle. He ADORED the Celtics. So it stands to reason I was REQUIRED to hate them and adore the Lakers- who he hated more than anything. To this day many of my choices stand.
Other ways of coping were much less healthy. Again, no real need to go into great detail because it just doesn't matter anymore nor is it necessary for the point of this blog post. What actually is the point? I'm glad you asked......
The relationship (or lack thereof) with my dad came to a head the year my baby sister got married. We were having some get together at my parents' house and for whatever reason my dad and I started exchanging words. It continued to his sitting on the couch, smirking and seeming to enjoy my pain as usual. Suddenly, I was standing in front of him in real physical pain letting 30 plus years of never being "enough" and of feeling "less than" just pour out through heated tears. I can't even remember most of what I said. But it was raw and it was real and it was necessary. When I was done, as I walked away I saw tears well up in his eyes and he had no expression on his face. It was the first time I saw my dad as a person with emotions. It was the first time I can ever recall seeing his eyes well with tears. Had I possibly gotten to him?
That day ended with my telling him that he was dead to me. He was not to include me in ANY conversation when asked about his family because he was not now, had never been and would NEVER be my father and I was certainly (thank God) NOT his daughter.
We didn't speak or acknowledge each other for at least 2 or 3 years after that. And it was fine with me. I was content with that. I thought.
In December of 2004 my family and I drove to Ohio for Christmas with my parents, siblings and children. It was crazy and chaotic as all my family functions are and I loved it. And my dad was actually pleasant. Which was definitely new. He's never been super social and typically ends up grouchy and not really participating in family things for long. This was different. He socialized a bit with all of us, interacted some with all the kids and seemed overall in a good mood. When it was time for us to head back to Maryland something pushed me to be "the bigger person" and go speak to him. So, I walked into his room in the basement and told him we were going. I thanked him for the gifts for my family and everything and said we would see him when we made it home next time. He replied accordingly to each, stood when I came in and we hugged goodbye. I'm not sure why but I heard myself saying "love you,dad". And this voice said "I love you,too Jean. Be careful going home".
This man.....this person who I had blamed for nearly every single pain of my existence....this person who had NEVER EVER - not once EVER in my life uttered those words or anything resembling them to me.....just said he loved me. WHAT?!!
From that point on our relationship was different. No, I wasn't suddenly "daddy's little girl". But we spoke. The underlying anger and hatred didn't permeate our every meeting. The hard feelings didn't weigh down my shoulders when I walked in the door. Now it was two adults who were able to be human to each other. It was a nice change. I still didn't "feel" affection or real daughterly love toward him but I didn't hate him either.
In June of 2017 my mom called. That call literally changed everything. My dad was not well. He had been hearing voices, become depressed and was having thoughts of harming himself and my mom. I was scared and sobbing and feeling all the feelings all at once. Somehow I managed to drive the 8 hours to their home without really knowing I was driving at all. (Scary) The short version is we got my dad to the ER, fully evaluated and then admitted to a care facility for two weeks for treatment. For the next two plus years we watched him improve and come out of the fog of the severe depression and mental break he had gone through. It was scary. It was hard. And man was it inconvenient.
Something I said then has resonated with me lately........I told my mom and sisters that it was pretty inconvenient to suddenly be slapped in the face with the reality that not only do I not hate my father but it's likely I never TRULY hated him to begin with. It was just a little bit of an interference in my life to suddenly have these feelings overwhelm me and realize that I actually love the jerk.
Our relationship changed again after that and we became closer. We had conversations. He listened to things I talked about. And he asked my advice about his diabetes. (He was diagnosed and I have had it for years.) One day, we sat at the dining room table...just my dad and I. And we spent about two hours looking through photo albums of his childhood, his family, etc. It was the first time I had ever heard him really talk about his childhood and what life was like then. And it was the first time I think I truly SAW him.
You see, years before I had realized that my dad did the best he could do with the tools he was given. And he wasn't given much. Don't get me wrong, my grandparents were not hateful people. They weren't physically abusive. They just weren't loving and affectionate "huggy feely" parents. They were affectionate toward each other in the photos. There are letters written by my grandmother that reflect her love and personality. When it came to my dad and his brother though.....love was shown to your children by providing for them. If you spent money on things for them (even if it was just socks and underwear) that was showing love. The hugs, the words, the human touch....weren't necessary. In all honesty my father wasn't given ANY tools and should never have been a parent. BUT-having said that......my father did his best. He provided. For ALL of us. We had a roof. We had food. We had what we needed to live and grow. The love (at least outwardly) wasn't there but in his way, the only way he knew- he was showing us he loved us.
So-here we are. My dad is currently in a nursing home. Thanks to my own winter illnesses and COVID I haven't seen him since late January. He hasn't been home since he left Christmas Eve for the ER after suffering a massive stroke. Once again-I found myself "inconvenienced" by all the feelings. I was scared. Would he recover? Did he lose memories? Does he know....anything/anyone? Will he still be DAD?! And I prayed. Hard.
Prayer is a funny thing. My prayers consist of a conversation with God. I talk to Him often,about much (everything) in a casual way. It's not formal. I don't kneel at my bedside, close my eyes and fold my hands. I don't think God minds. I just talk to Him. Wherever I am. Whenever I need to. For years I prayed for the relationship with my father. My mom would tell me that all we can do is pray that God soften his heart because He is the only one who can. So I asked. Repeatedly. Ironic that through all those years praying for God to soften the heart of the man I "hated" He was actually softening mine.

The Mess

I am an emotionally exhausted, physically spent, battered bundle of a hot mess. Have been for weeks, longer if I am honest. This past week-ish (two) has been exceptionally overwhelming. I drove to SC to retrieve one of my offspring who had just completed her last final exam putting the period on her freshman year as a college student. She had an amazing year. Were there hiccups? Sure. The homesickness never became debilitating, the roomies were a PERFECT fit for her, she made the Dean's List, got invited to the Honor's College and her anxiety was fairly well controlled. (Apparently attitude and stubbornness aren't the only things momma handed down). As her friends helped her carry her every worldly possession from the dorm to the van I reflected on how quickly her year went and how on Earth could this baby girl already be done with her first year at college. I shook my head as I realized she will turn 20 at the end of this year. And then I cried a little. 20. How did THAT happen?? How could it be that I am mother to not one but FOUR grown humans who by the end of this year will ALL have lived two decades on this planet?!! No. Impossible. We spent the night with the first of my offspring that night. I got a little misty as I sat there watching this grown man-child relax on the couch next to his soon to be wife, in their beautiful new home, laughing at the antics of their precious little boy. The contentment with his life....the happiness in his eyes.......*sniff sniff*. The one who made me a mother is a father. Where did those years go?? Watching my second born and other member of the "Original Two" as they call themselves chase his dream.....not just chase but grab it and make it his own! Two years ago we didn't know what the next day would look like. A stroke tried to stop him. Today he is a new business owner working for himself.....teaching others how to be their personal best. He advocates for stroke awareness and has surrounded himself with some pretty amazing individuals. I choked up thinking how different life might have been if that stroke had won. There is a hint of sadness when I listen to my oldest daughter excitedly talk about moving out.....to her own apartment soon as she searches listings. Of course I am ecstatic that she is strong, independent and goal driven so there's no question she'll be fine. Yes I am proud and thankful that she is in a position with an incredible (reliable) company that offers her the income (and benefits) that will afford her the ability to live on her own. But I'll miss knowing this is her full time home. I'll miss her habit of leaving her water bottles on the counter no matter how many times I remind her. And that little boy. That sweet child she is raising......I will miss his laughter as he goes to bed at night and shouts up the stairs "night GRAMS" an thinks he's hysterical. (He is). But she's a better mother than I was at her age and she will do amazingly well. Then.....oh and then.........those two young ones who have simultaneously chosen (more like conspired) to test every patience nerve I possess by simply deciding school is not important and they have better things to do than all that stupid homework. That 14 year old girl who.....wait. She's 14. Is there really any need to say more?? But- she's 14. OMG. She will start high school in September. That tiny, fragile, weak little thing with the broken heart and lack of blood that scared me to death upon her entry into this world is going to high school. My brain just can't allow for that. And the boy. The boy who can be the funniest, sweetest young man.......who used to be those things. But that boy has gone into hiding over the last several years and I see him less often as each day passes. That boy who tests every limit of every ounce of patience I have ever had. We have struggled for so long with all the issues......and I fought for him. It took me years but I fought for him and we finally have a diagnosis and an initial plan. It's odd though. I believed that statement would somehow bring relief -- make me feel "better". Instead.....I sobbed. Relief, yes. I wasn't crazy (well, I am.....clearly- but that's not THIS post). It wasn't all in my head and his issues weren't the result of my failure as a parent. Except I DID fail as a parent. I failed to acknowledge the initial signs when maybe doing so could have minimized his struggle. I failed my own expectations of being some ridiculously unobtainable supermom. So----- I'm a mess. A hot one. All the time lately. And believe it or not I couldn't really put my finger on why! (Stop laughing). Yeah....all that stuff is a lot. Sure it can be overwhelming. But moms.....women in general....isn't that sort of what we do? Overwhelming. We overcome that crap with our eyes closed most of the time. (A happy pill or adult beverage are usually great assistants. Just saying). But really---I have a kid who's 30. Why should overwhelming have me in such a state when I've been doing this for sooooo many years. Wait. That's it. Years. Time. It's time. It's THAT time. Again. Dammit. It's Spring. Again. And with Spring comes..........

The ache. The knowledge of time passing. Missed milestones. Upcoming anniversaries.

It's funny- I end up writing something almost every Spring about how it snuck up on me again and how it affected my mood, etc. I write about how Spring means Summer isn't far behind......and with that comes August which will mean another birthday celebrated ......remembered ...... without them. Each year I talk about how it surprises me that my mood changes as the time nears. And it does. Every year. Every time it's a surprise. Yes, I know it's coming. Yes I am fully aware of the dates all year long. But I think every year when we mark the day they were born I somehow think next year won't be "as bad". That somehow time and its passage will soften that blow when the next season rolls around. It doesn't. It never will.

It's been over a decade. More than ten years. Quickly approaching eleven. That's ten birthdays already marked and this....the eleventh Spring. Soon summer will follow along and bring with it the eleventh birthday...........

And so I am a huge bundle of twisted messiness. Because it's Spring. And for as much as I spend all winter craving the sunshine I desperately wish we could somehow skip over August. As if that would clean up the mess.

Grief is My Badge

Grief. It's a big word. Enormous. It has enormous meaning and brings with it depth of emotion you never knew existed. We're taught to contain it (as if we could). We're told to keep it inside....to hide the emotions that come with it. Grief makes others uncomfortable. Grief is awkward. It's messy. It's not normal.
Except it is. For many of us....grief becomes our normal. It's a constant companion. It's the weight on our shoulders, the heaviness in our chest, the weariness in our eyes and the hollow in our heart. We learn how to carry it, to carry on.....in spite of the grief.  But no matter how adept we become at carrying that pain with us and wearing the mask of actual normalcy in public so as not to upset "the others" or make them cringe at hearing about our losses grief is always there.....just under the surface. Swirling slowly like a funnel cloud....twisting and churning......growing in strength until that moment you least expect it and suddenly- control is lost. The F5 cuts its path through your seemingly tidy life and upsets everything in it's way. You're left to survey the damage, pick up the pieces and wonder if you'll be able to put your life back together.....again.....for the millionth time.
There's another side to grief. To this luggage I carry. To the pain I walk hand in hand with every step of every moment of every day. There's a sense of security. There's a feeling of ...... honor. It's a badge.
There was a time when I prayed the grief would end. That I'd wake up just once and not feel the pain and emptiness that comes from the loss of them. That there'd be a finish line to this journey of constant sorrow. Somewhere along the way....I changed my mind.
I don't want the grief to end. I welcome it's presence in my life because as unpredictable and painful as it may be (is) the grief....the pain.....means they lived. They existed. No matter how briefly. For a moment----they WERE. I was (am) their mother. Dear God how I welcome and revel in that knowledge. They WERE. The grief means that I remember. An end to the hollow place in my soul.....a stop to the tears......would mean I've forgotten their tiny, perfect, beautiful faces. That I can no longer close my eyes and breathe in the memory of their scent. The end to the emptiness means I no longer feel their tiny bodies in my arms as I clutched them to me wishing.....BEGGING to be able to love them awake. Oh how I never want to forget.
And so.....I carry this grief. Willingly. Openly. Proudly. I wear it. And I will keep wearing it as long a there is breath in my lungs. I will wear with honor. Honored to have been chosen to be their mother. Honored to remember every moment they were with me. Honored to still feel the inexplicable mix of soul shattering pain and overwhelming joy in the moments they were born. Honored that even now......ten years later......an entire decade of missed memories and milestones.....even now- they are my daugters. Grief is my badge.

Permission to Miss Them

The time is coming....again....too quickly. I looked at the date on my computer and noticed, of course...it's the 20th. **sigh** So, I counted. Not that I had to. I never have to. We just don't....
Parents who have had to say their absolute final farewells to their children never have to count. We always know. We know how long it's been since and how long until the next milestone/anniversary. We just know. 
Eight weeks. Exactly. Eight weeks from today will mark a decade. It will mark ten years since the very last time I felt my daughters move within my ever expanding abdomen. Ten years since I walked into a doctor's office and heard those words that have echoed in my ears so many times since....." I'm so sorry." A decade without them. Eight weeks. Five days after that I will mark the ten year mark for the day I delivered my daughters. So incredibly tiny, perfect and beautiful....and silent. How is it possible? Have I really survived ten years since that day? Ten years ago I wasn't sure I would survive the moment, the next day, the week.....and yet-I have. 
Sunday was father's day....and I read and smiled at so many posts and comments about fathers both living and no longer with us. And it struck me as it often does that while we (the loss community) have made incredible strides in raising awareness and helping some to understand just what our loss entails-we still have major mountains to move. 
How many postings did you see expressing love and longing for fathers long passed? People who genuinely wish they had more time with their father to create just one more memory, give one more hug, express one last I love you. Many I am sure and you likely expressed your loving thoughts to them on such a difficult day to be without their father. You held out some supportive comment on how lucky they were to have had time with their father and how you're certain daddy is watching over them and proud, etc. And not once did you (no matter how much time has passed since their loss) question their state of mind, their sanity, their ability to function in life or suggest they seek help, stop living in the past or move on because sweet Lord this "hanging on" just isn't healthy or normal. (I loathe that word almost as much as the other n word, BTW). 
And yet.....here I sit....almost ten years after giving birth to two children whose every moment I had planned in my head. Two little girls whose siblings had already determined who would wear which color and what their likes/dislikes and personalities would be. Two little girls who I instead held against me, lifeless as I drank in every detail of their appearance, inhaled their scent and kissed their little faces and fingers over and over wishing desperately to awake from this nightmare. Two little girls whose siblings have grown/aged and become ten years older without them. Two little girls who instead of having toys shoved under couches and clothes strewn around the house have two tiny urns on a shelf. 
Ten years of pain and daily grief that I am not supposed to talk about. It's not normal. It just isn't healthy to relive it. It's funny.....there was a time ten years ago when I couldn't get through a thought of them without losing any semblance of emotional strength or control. I cried. Daily. I sobbed every night. And I prayed often to join them because the pain of living without them outweighed every single other emotion/feeling I possessed. But now...a decade later....I am able to smile. To think of them and remember how amazing it felt when they would toss and turn and kick inside of me. To revel in the joy of those weekly appointments when I could listen to the music of their heartbeats and stare in awe at their growing bodies and beautiful faces on the ultrasound machine. If I close my eyes I can see them. I can feel them. And I can still smell the scent of their bodies as I clung to them. 
But...it never fails....people don't see my loss as a true/real loss. When I talk about my daughters I get messages. People are concerned for my well being. They question my state of mind and whether or not I need to seek help. Should I maybe consider medicating to level out my emotional state? Is it really healthy for my OTHER children (who I really should be thankful for) to see me "this way" ALL the time?? **sigh**
Would you ask your best friend whose father died 30 years ago if she needs help because she STILL misses him? No. Of course you wouldn't. Because their is absolutely nothing abnormal/wrong/unhealthy with the fact that someone misses their father once they are gone from this life. Guess what? There is EQUALLY nothing abnormal/wrong/unhealthy with my STILL missing my CHILDREN who DIED. Why can we not seem to balance those two situations in our minds? 
So....please consider this a REALLY long disclaimer for the posts that will no doubt start popping up on my social media. Because I miss them. Every moment of every second of every hour of every single day. I think of them all the time. And in eight weeks I will be marking a very big passage of time that has been spent missing them. But it doesn't mean I am unhealthy. It doesn't mean I am depressed, suicidal or holding onto the past. It simply means....I miss my children. 

The Finish Line

Life moves so quickly....sometimes too much so. There's always some deadline, some time limit or some destination we simply MUST beat/make/arrive at in the least amount of time possible. We talk all the time about slowing down, taking a break, enjoying the moment........we just don't seem to actually do any of those things.
I, however.....am about to slow down, take a break and absolutely savor the moment that is kicking in my front door with urgency. It's almost here. Time is almost up. The finish line is right there....almost.....almost.
There were times when I worried if this moment would ever come. Would we make it there together? Would we be a team, crossing that end point in unity or would I be chasing behind them, trying to get them across the finish and into their next race? Would the journey to this destination be smooth, would it be bumpy, would it be nearly impassible? Would our path be blocked or would we see our way clear to the end? I worried. I prayed. I hoped. I imagined. And now......
We've made it. We're there. Together. Unified. Whole. We did it....the road was bumpy at times but it was unencumbered by the evil of the past. We've made it......and for the first time in a decade I feel as if I am almost able to breathe.
When that man walked into that school all those years ago disappearing with my children the very breath left my lungs. The sound of my heart pounding in my throat was deafening. The fear that I might never find them....never see them again.....well....
It took two years. Two years filled with so much pain, confusion,frustration, anger, desperation....and just about every other emotion there is. Two years of having the gears of the legal system grind painfully slow and having courtroom doors slammed in my face. Two years. He stole two years of my life....their lives....OUR life together. But there was a destination even then. And we reached that one. They came home. We made it. The journey was incredibly rocky with obstacles at every turn. The finish wasn't pretty. It was traumatic. But we made it.
We drove away from that apartment, that life, the lies, the coercion, the mental/emotional abuse (and borderline physical) and embarked on a new journey. There wasn't a map for this one. This was all going to be unexplored territory. And my children were scared. They were confused. And I was terrified. Terrified they'd run. Terrified he'd track us down and take them again. Terrified they might never love me again or think of me as their mother.
But guess what? We made it.
There have been ups, downs and in betweens along this leg of the trip. It's been almost a decade. Ten years. Ten years since they left that life. Ten years since they said goodbye to him without knowing it would be the very last time they would see him. Ten years since we started the job of moving forward. I have spent ten years watching with awe as my children have learned, loved, lost.....as they've fallen and pulled themselves back up.....as they went from scared, confused, untrusting little girls with huge chips on their shoulders to confident, loving, compassionate young women with hope, dreams and goals for the future and the drive to get there. I have been blessed to be a participant in all of it. Not a spectator. And here we are....together.....days away from walking across the finish line together. The three of us.
The relief is overwhelming. The knowledge that I no longer have to worry "What if he ....." is empowering. I can't lie-I still feel myself tensing just a bit anytime I see a license plate from Ohio, My subconscious still wonders....could it be him? Has he come to get them? But now-it passes almost as soon as it arrives. Because we've made it. We made it. Together. Unified. Whole.

The Purge

Cidney is 18 years old now. She's grown. How did that happen? WHEN did that happen? My two little girls, my oldest daughters - both now adult women. I know this. And yet as with most mothers I try to hang onto small pieces and parts of the little girls I used to know. Favorite books, sloppy drawings, jibberish scribbled on slips of paper.........tiny scraps of when they were so small and relied on me to love, nurture, teach and protect them. They are grown now and while I will always love, nurture and hopefully teach them whenever possible they no longer need or rely on me to protect them. And so........it's time to let go.
I emptied a section of my filing cabinet. It was there in the bottom drawer, tucked away in the back.....just in case. It has been there for over a decade now......just in case. Just in case......in case I needed to prove once again what really happened, what was really said, what was really done. Just in case.....in case "he" decided to show up, unannounced and try it again. Just in case......
To anyone else it looked like random papers, old shipping labels, used up agendas, piles of old emails and file folders. Nothing special. Nothing extraordinary. Typical things we shove in a drawer and forget about. Except I never forgot. I couldn't. The random papers and used up agendas were special. The emails and file folders were extraordinary. Even if for all the wrong reasons.
But it is time to let go........
Out they all came. Every email. Every paper. Every file. Every agenda. And into the shredder. Two years of searching for my daughters, being denied access to them, accounts of their lives with their kidnapper and his accomplices, ignored orders from the courts, countless contempt charges, statements from neighbors and teachers. There were depositions, continuance notices....so many continuance notices. And emails. Tons of emails. Emails from an often distraught and desperate mother begging for help to rescue her daughters. Emails from attorneys making false allegations and excuses for their client. Emails filled with hatred, anger, lies and disgusting things being slung from the accused. And I let them all go......
We did it. We made it. We survived. And they are grown now. I did my job. I rescued them. I brought them home and loved---oh how I loved those fragile, broken girls. I nurtured them. I taught them that they were innocent and that it was still ok to love him, to miss him, to remember him in happier times. And I protected them. From every word in that drawer. Every lie. Every accusation. And they made it. And they are grown. Amazing......beautiful....brilliant and incredible grown women. So now...now I can let go.

The Year of The Decades

It's funny what you reflect on sometimes. Even funnier when you are struck with something in the midst of that reflection. These little "epiphanies" make us smile, laugh, cry....bring us joy, make us wistful...and somtimes- they can suck the breath right from our lungs.
As I sit here reflecting on my "big" birthday coming later this year and imagining how it will feel to turn another decade older.....I am suddenly struck by all the other decades that are being marked this year.
You see, I'll be 50 in October. Five decades. Half a century. I've walked this planet (well, existed on it anyway) for almost 50 years. I look back through those decades and remember just how much things, times, people and myself have changed. How far I've come and how far I still have to go. I think about the milestones in those five decades and can't help but acknowledge them.
40- four decades. Four decades ago my baby brother was born. He just celebrated his 40th birthday in Vegas. Forty years and yet I can still remember the day he was born quite clearly. Waking up to bath towels on the kitchen floor and my Aunt Denise getting me off to school. Sitting in Miss Chiles' third grade classroom watching the clock and waiting for "the call" and being shocked (and confused) at how nice she was to me that day. Miss Chiles was NEVER nice to me.
30-three decades. In July three decades will have passed since I found out there was a tiny little person growing inside of me. It seems like yesterday that I sat there, crying and terrifed at the news and unable to register a single thing the nurse on the other end of the phone said to me once she uttered that word. Three decades of the scariest, most joyous roller coaster ride a person could ever take.
20-two decades. My daughter....my very first baby girl will turn two decades old in May. How? How can this even be real? Wasn't it just last week that she was playing with her dolls and wearing those adorably uneven pigtails? Now she is all grown up into a beautiful mother. Where did those decades go?
And then......the breath sucker. That proverbial punch in the stomach. 10.
Ten years.
Ten years ago I sat at my desk thinking something just felt off. Ten years ago I went home from work and peed on a stick. And saw the lines. Positive. Three weeks later I stared at a screen in disbelief at not one but two tiny little people nestled in my womb. I spent the next months fluctuating between ridiculous JOY as I imagined, planned for and (im)patiently waited to meet my baby girls and sheer TERROR at the prospect of having not one but four children aged 3 and under to care for AT THE SAME TIME as well as an eight and ten year old and two newly graduated college kids. And then.....
Ten years ago I walked into a doctor's office and watched that screen, searching for some sign of life no matter how small. There were no signs. No life. Just instant, overwhelming, raw grief and an excruciating and soul shattering agony. In August- a decade will have passed since the last time my daughters took a breath. A decade of missed milestones in the midst of so many others being marked and remembered.
Yes, the breathing will be labored this year.....this year of the decades.