Isn't it strange when you can abstract the process of grieving from the loss itself? I think I've just gotten here. The grief changes--the life and death, recorded in some cosmic book, do not. I've known that truth for some time. But, reading over my last post, I realize it has nothing to do with Sophie.
(She's preserved in my mind--forever I hope. Even when I begin to lose my mind--dementia perhaps--I wonder if she will still be there. And I will be that woman who keeps knitting even when only my hands remember things. Just like I may still quaver in toothless excitement when I conjure unicorns or dinosaurs, remembering somewhere in my recesses that those impossible things mean my girls.)
But that post was dark, cavernous. Like the space inside a suspended silently screaming mouth. I don't often feel that way, and never about Sophie herself. Only about the dark days of grieving. And these lighter days are like silent song--the cavern is similar in ways--but oh how melodious. Still how strange that disconnect.
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