The stillness of my soul is numbing, and crushing. My skin burns; it feels so raw. My eyes appear permanently bloodshot.
I’ve cried, almost non-stop, for seven days. My head has been pounding without relief. I’m sick. I can feel my body aging and deteriorating. I’m completely exhausted.
I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. I feel like I have no idea who I am. I’m unsure how to navigate through each day.
I wonder if people still think of us. I imagine they do. Everyone is busy. Days can easily turn into weeks. They’re probably so thankful this pain is not theirs.
Or have they simply forgotten?
I have irrational fantasies of sharing custody of Norah, with God. Could I at least have her every couple of weeks, or months, even?
She will never be forgotten.
We still have no answers. We likely never will.
I have no idea where her organs are or who is caring for them.
Are they studying her brain enough?
Or will this be forgotten?
I’ve learned how to drive, while crying; how to cook, while crying; how to speak, while crying; how to work, while crying; how to love, while crying.
I openly cry in public. I can’t stop it. I see people looking my way – young children who know, and their parents who don’t want to.
I wish I remembered the days when I didn’t know what this felt like.
I’m mourning in, what I call, “the aftermath.”
And everything feels so forgotten.