Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Must Learn to Knit

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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