When the quiet gets too loud
I find myself writing less and if I’m going to be brutally honest it’s because the writing has changed. It now sometimes forces me to feel it, really feel it rather than offer the reprieve that it once was. It’s nice to feel her though. I can easily pull her face and weight against me to the forefront. I sit here in the silence with my sleeping Bird upon my chest, next to Beau who I hope is dreaming peacefully and the hot, fat tears fall.
Shes missing. I knew her so intimately and maybe that’s why quiet moments like these can feel too loud. I’m missing a piece of me.
I know now the holidays are hard for a lot of people for a host of reasons. It’s hard for me because those moments become more touchable, real. The holes become bigger, more menacing. Their quietness screams at me in the one less present, one less stocking sort of way.
I am positively giddy about the little, red push car we purchased Birdie. I clapped my hands just the other day telling Beau how we are going to wear matching PJs, put Bird to bed and probably argue on how to construct it.
There’s the tangible. I have one little red car when there should be two.
I’m hopeful that our grief journey, following Piper’s death teaches you this, it’s OK to not be OK. I’m sure I read that somewhere on Instagram buut even in it’s cliche nature it’s the truth. Early on, my dear counselor said lean in, hard and feel it. Give attention to the pain. If you can’t acknowledge the broad spectrum of feelings you have surrounding tour tragedy or even regular life, it WILL swallow you whole, creating a blackness that is difficult to surmount. I’ve been there it was hard. But Oooh this light. I bask in it.
It’s important to create your own. My light is cherished as it was hard fought and I invite others join adding their brightness to mine so I can shine even brighter.
Similar to my obnoxious colored lights. Sorry Beau.
In very recent months I’ve felt my light burn so damn bright that I can feel it finally touching people I love. The me that I feared would never return is here, wounded but not damaged. Stronger, happier and better because my daughter left me with her light to carry.
This is is our third Christmas with out Pipes and we miss her all the same. My heart feels so much less grinchy as I delight in my family and the miracle of the season. Take care you beautiful tribe and as always rest easy, Piper Kai.
Merry, merry Christmas.
Pipers stocking, thanks to Mama Bowen.