absence and presence

I wake each Sunday knowing that another full week has passed since we lost her.  It has now been 9 weeks and 3 days.  When I think about where she would be right now, what she would be doing, what our lives would be like... to say it breaks my heart only demonstrates how inadequate our language is at expressing true grief.

I wish, with the most magical of thinking, that I did not have to be a mom to a dead child.  I wish I could look into her eyes, which I imagine would sparkle and crinkle at the edges when she smiled, like her dad's.  I can see her smile, goofy and mischievous.  I can feel her tiny grip on my finger, and picture how her dad and I would laugh and marvel at her amazing brute strength, despite her petite size.  

Turner and I went out to lunch last weekend at a small vietnamese restaurant near our apartment.  It's a little bittersweet, going to this place.  It is filled with neighborhood regulars; mainly couples and families.  It is brightly lit and bustling, but laid back and easy.  It's a good place to bring a baby or a toddler.  Pho is my favorite food, and I wanted to share it, along with all the other delicious and beautiful and funny things in the world, with Nina-Lou.  I knew she would love it all, like I do.  Turner and I sat and ate and laughed a little and slurped our noodles, and every once and awhile a moment of silence passed in which we knew that the both of us were feeling her absence, which is so palpable that it is almost a presence.  It IS a presence.  We feel her with us, all the time.  It's eerie, and comforting, and profoundly sad.  

The other day, I transferred her ashes to a small, airtight canister.  It's not fancy, but it's sturdy and won't shatter if it gets knocked down by one of our cats or in an earthquake.  Her ashes, the only physical remnants of her corporal body, are safe in there.  To keep them safe is the least I can do.  What is left of her amounts to about a quarter cup of fine ash and tiny chunks of bone.  I was deeply struck by their beauty; the colors of her burnt bones were a combination of the most delicate pastels and grays.  I feel lucky to have them.  When we first lost Nina, I wasn't even sure if I wanted them.  But having her remains, here in the apartment with us, we feel a weird kind of completeness.  We had considered scattering them, but we can't.  We need them close.  

It doesn't bring her back.  It doesn't bring her any closer.  We can talk about her and feel her presence and run our fingers through her ashes, but she is dead and will always be dead.  All we can do is miss her.  Some days it hurts more than others.  But it always hurts, at least a little, every minute of every day.