It doesn’t happen very often anymore.
That surge of anger and rage that punches through me out of nowhere. That fierce explosion of fury at the utter unfairness of it all.
My babies are dead. My babies who shouldn’t be babies anymore.
My life, filled with that unspoken, indescribable emptiness that cannot be filled because the children I am supposed to be mothering here on earth are not here. They are gone from me, taken from this life before they ever really got to live in it.
This anger, this unexpected bubbling rage, doesn’t happen often these days.
So, when it comes now, it feels that much more intense because it so rarely rears it’s vicious head.
She should be 14.
She should be 7.
They should be here. There should be meals to make, lunches to pack, homework to be done, chores to do, chauffeuring to endless activities, clutter and piles of laundry to do.
There should be hugs and love, joy in watching them learn and grow, challenges as they push me to be a better mom, endless pictures to share, and bragging about how brilliant they are to everyone who will listen.
She should be 14.
Her little sister should be 7.
I should know them now. I should have more than imagined images of who they might have been in my head.
My babies shouldn’t be babies anymore.
They should be more than a memory or a possibility.
Instead, I know grief far more intimately than I know the babies I carried for too short a time.
No matter the years that pass, I can never quite forget or forgive the fact that I don’t know them now.
She should be 14.
She should be 7.
I should know them now.
I wish they were 14 and 7.
I wish I knew them now.
- I Should Know Them Now - May 29, 2017
- Stolen Memories - March 8, 2017
- Receiving Support - October 14, 2016