I feel like we are living somewhere between denial and hell.
Yesterday, we spent the day in almost utter silence. The sink hole of grief had found us Saturday night and without warning we both fell into its pit.
Yesterday, I wondered why we stayed in this house, this infernal, huge, quiet house. Why didn't we leave?
In church a mother and daughter were baptized together, much like Joey and Wade and Taylor were baptized on a fourth of July in what seems like a lifetime ago. Our pastor pushed his baby grand-daughter around in her stroller, his daughter at his heels. We sat there in the church, during the baptism, watching the joy of this grandad, in the same space where we said good-bye to Taylor and then July 27, 2014 was yesterday.
We sat in silence - unable to console each other for the rest of the day, interacting only when parenting our son beckoned us from the dark depths.
It follows us, this hole. Like Peter Pan's shadow stitched to his heel, we are forever connected to it. We dive at life hanging on to our son, barricading ourselves inside our jobs, trying to escape the edge that teases our heels and plays havoc with our balance.
At the end of the day, I answered my own question. This incessant silence would follow us wherever we go, whether we live in this house or another. At the end of the day, my husband crawled into our bed and reached over to pull me close. There are no words.
The alarm sounded this morning and honestly, we scoffed at another day succumbing only at the last moment to its demand. Yet, we did, and we will again.
Tonight, I am thankful for a marriage that can withstand and perhaps honor the emptiness that has joined this union, where we neither look for comfort nor offer it, where we fall sometimes singularly, sometimes in tandem, where that place between denial and hell finally gives way to love and light.
She is the best of us, love -