I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting in this chair. All sense of time has been lost to me. My mind keeps flashing to him and how big he would be right now. I see him crawling on the floor and looking back at me, like he needs permission to go on further. I’ve had to be imagining this scene for hours. The sky was blue when I first sat down and now the stars are peaking out.

Everyone else is rushing around, preparing for the upcoming holiday. They’re busy making cookies and wrapping present. Through my trance I can see them; more importantly I can see their eyes. They shift when they glance over at me. Instead of bright and determined as they look when they’re on task, they soften to sad eyes when they catch mine. Those sad eyes cut through me. It’s not a look of pity, it’s a look of trying to find the right words. They know this would be his first holiday season, but they don’t know how to express his absence or what to say to me.

Honestly, I don’t even know what to tell them to say.

On one hand, I want to be treated completely normal. I want them to pull me off of this chair and give me something to do. A big part of my mind wants to be in this moment that’s happening. I want to start a flour fight while making cookies and even decorate the tree. Nights like these I wish I could feel normal. Then on the other hand, I want them to acknowledge Jensen and this pain I feel. There have been moments I wanted to break down, but I felt like it would ruin their time. It doesn’t make sense that they can’t see what I have for all these hours. Seeing him crawl on the floor plays so vividly in my mind. It hurts not having my little vision as a reality. No matter how much I want to feel normal, grief continues to weigh me down on this day.

Maybe I can tell them what’s been playing in my mind.

Maybe we can include him by making sugar cookie cutouts with his J.

Maybe then their sad eyes would shift to understanding ones.

Maybe I could smile and be present in this moment.

All these maybes and yet I say nothing. Sometimes, it’s safer to be in between these two worlds. Especially at gatherings like these, when the sad eyes are on me. Other times I feel like I’ll always be the girl whose baby died. The one who sits silently in the chair with visions of her child who’s not there. I wish they could see the mother he made me. The one I’ll always be. Maybe one day my strength will guide me to sharing seeing Jensen crawling on the floor. On that day, I hope those sad eyes will change.

But I’m still sitting here with one foot in the should be’s and the other in this reality.