Six weeks.

It’s been six weeks, and it still hurts like hell sometimes.

I found this blog entry from another mom. It doesn’t all ring true, but a lot of it does, especially her line, “The truth is it’s not fair to make me feel uncomfortable just because you are.” Well said.

Healing comes in small steps, as ever.


It’s as if a friend came over to visit me
in my time of anguish, and sat on my couch,
She didn’t say anything,
didn’t expect
She busied herself
with a book or a puzzle, never
interrupted me and whatever it was I needed
to do.
She weathered my tears
and raging
and depression without flinching,
and then we were silent for
a long time,
in part
because there was nothing to say,
or because words are
empty or because
I was too angry at her
and everyone else.
Often, I wished
she’d go away,
but more frequently
I was glad
she didn’t.
Without expectation or pressure
or crowding,
she stayed in my space
and waited.

in small little
in one
or two
words at a time,
in clipped half-finished
sentences, I broke
our silence.
Like she knew I would,
like she had been waiting for me
to do, I spoke,
at first a shy
ashamed of my anger
and heavy
then small phrases
and sentences, tentative
thoughts put to words.

And that’s how I began to pray

1 thought on “Six weeks.”

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