I sneak in to look at her sleeping before I go to bed as I do every night. I see her sound asleep with her crazy hair haloed around her head. I see her extra “essie” (pacifier) clutched in her chubby pink hand. She takes my breath away. She is so beautiful and vibrant and alive. I watch her sleep and I can’t help but think what a contrast. What a contrast to Oliver. I watch her sleep and I think about all the happy crazy joyous moments we have had, and the ones that are to come. I can’t help but wonder whether the ones to come will all be tinged with sadness and the what ifs. The I wish. Will I ever be able to lose myself in her the way I used to? To just be completely happy and ridiculous throwing grass in the air or blowing bubbles or picking dandelions?

How do you make yourself appreciate these things more because of what you have lost?

I feel sometimes like a symphony – like prior to this I was all flutes and piccolos, with maybe the occasional oboe note thrown in, but nothing more than that. Now suddenly there is a deep and sonorous strings line added to the mix. It is deep, and low, and pervasive, and sad. At times it is at complete dischord with the rest of the music. But sometimes – maybe more and more? – it simply complements the music that was there before. It’s beautiful, even in all of it’s sadness. It adds a richness and a depth to what went before; a strange, more intense beauty.

I am oddly grateful that it’s there.


One response to this post.

  1. Posted by Catherine on May 24, 2009 at 6:55 am

    This is a beautiful description. Sometimes I am grateful for the extra line of music, at other times angry. But my life will never ‘sound’ the way it used to. Not necessarily a bad thing.


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