An anniversary of sorts
This week marks five years since the only miscarriage I’ve had. I know that because Gaz took me away for my birthday, and when we got back the baby had died. I wrote about it once (and all the other times I wrote about it).
I don’t think about it often. Not as often as I promised I would. “I will think about this every single day for the rest of my life!” I promised. “I will cry every ten minutes until my eyes fall out!” I promised. “I will literally carve my sadness into every tree trunk!” I promised.
But after five years, I don’t do any of those things. I don’t think about it every single day. I don’t think about it every single week. Sometimes it slides past me in the hallway, a gentle sense that something is missing, and sometimes it grabs me as it goes and I feel the quick shock of remembering. Sometimes I catch it on the air or out of the corner of my eye or behind a creaky door. Sometimes I find it in the folds of soft linen or in the thick smell of meat or in the solid silence of midnight.
Sometimes, like today, I find it in the passing of time.
But I don’t cry every ten minutes, mostly. I just remember to remember.