Things are not always this bad...however, truth be told- it's always somewhere just under the surface. Grieving the loss of a child, is a pain that lays in wait. Waiting for your weakest, quietest moments. And in those times, when I've been run down, tired, fed up with the day-to-day - it takes hold.
This is what I think about in those moments:
You can't know the pain that makes me sick to my stomach, late at night when the house is quiet and I am struck, with the very real fear that I may forget her smell.
You can't know what I grieve for late at night, when my girls sleep and I am terrified someone's God will steal them too.
You can't know the terror I feel late at night, when I realize that the world around me has moved on, and never remembers her, and who she'd be right now, what she'd be doing, how she'd be playing, how she would be loving all of us.
You can't know what it is to loose the star of the show, the light of my life, my reason for being.
You can't know this pain. Mother Nature will not allow it. It runs too deep. Your world would stop. You wouldn't forget.
You can't know how alone this is, and how much on these nights, I would give everything to be with her for just one moment.
Just one.
And as much as I beg and plead for that one moment, I can't have it.
I feel her slipping further away and there is nothing I can do. Nothing you can say.
Because you can't know.
