Over a Month

It's been over a month now.

Over a month since we entered the foreign land of grief and began trying to learn the language of its inhabitants.

Over a month since being inducted into the society of mourners.

Over a month since our lives were changed. Forever. Permanently.

The reality of what has happened usually hits me at night as I lie in bed silently praying. It hits me like a cold chill. It hits me like sudden nausea. It hits me like a punch in the stomach.

Each day seems to bring a new, "specifically missing part." Last night I mourned Conner the cousin my youngest daughter Emily will never know on earth. That's the two of them in the picture above. Connor had a way with little kids. He had plenty of practice with all of his little cousins and he was wonderful with them. The loss of that relationship sent me reeling last night.

I think of these words from John Irving several times a day:

"When someone you love dies, you don't lose him all at once; you lose him in pieces over a long time - the way the mail stops coming, and his scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in his closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of him that are gone. Just when the day comes - when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that he's gone forever - there comes another day, and another specifically missing part."