Pink and Gray

I could hardly wait for Beau to go to the gym tonight so I could participate in my 'ritual'. Rituals are my way of organized grieving. My counselor used this term to describe it one time and I held on to it. You see, I like order and control. And who doesn't. I try to take a few moments or hours to allow myself to feel all the feels. Time to reflect, write or cry. I woke up today knowing it was going to be one of those days. A pajama and cookie dough kind-of day.

My rituals vary from day to day but the one I needed tonight was some time in her nursery.I prefer to participate in this alone. Not that I feel the need to hide it but because it's my time. I carefully take out all her tiny, newborn clothes and refold them in her drawers. I read her books and rock in her chair. I hold her hat from the hospital. And I lean in to the grief. Lean hard.

​Pink and gray. That beautiful nursery. It smells like a baby should live in there because Lolly lovingly washed all of her clothes in the special baby detergent. There are diapers in the drawers. The crib bedding that took me months to pick out. The gray walls and the soft pink curtains. There's the swing that I took out of the box and left on the floor because I was too excited {then too pregnant to assemble}. Her furniture that Beau and I put together the day we got it. There are also things that should not live in there. Her car seat, bottles and high chair are all stacked in a corner. Her bathtub and rubber ducky live in her closet. My brothers, Ethan and Arin, and our dear friend Jason came to our house before we returned without Piper and put all of the things strewn about the house in her room.

​Her nursery houses my most prized possession. Her memory box the hospital put together for us. You ever play that game in your head. If my house caught on fire what would I grab? Beau and Karma Jane go without saying. But the way I sleep they would have to grab me. But I'd choose that box. In that purple box, lives our daughter's ultrasound photos, hospital bracelet and her hand and foot prints.

​I can understand the horror that accompanies the thought process of 'why'. Why would I go in there? Doesn't it hurt? Sometimes I feel like putting all of her things on the curb because the thought of her never using them is almost unbearable. But most the time, I crave that nursery, to feel close to her. And I know there will come a day, hopefully, that I will need to prepare that room for subsequent children. Or I will feel strong enough to move some of things. But not today. Today I lean in.

​Today the choice is to grieve my daughter. Fully and properly.

​Rest easy Piper Kai.