My hair is falling out in clumps. I run my hands through it and they come out tangled and I think, oh no, what’s wrong? And then remember: I am four months postpartum. I don’t have a baby, but I am still postpartum, and this is ‘normal.’
I start to put some of the winter clothes away and take out the summer ones. In the bin in the bottom of the closet I find a bunch of winter shirts that I didn’t realize I was missing and then spend long minutes wondering why I would’ve put them away. Oh, right. Because I was too pregnant in the winter to wear them.
It’s like a dream, isn’t it? I still wake up every morning and remember that she is not here. That she is not going to start stretching inside me while we share a few quiet moments, just the two of us, before the day starts.
I feel like I am living underwater. I open my mouth to cry or rage but all I can do is send bubbles up to the surface, bubbles that burst ineffectually and provide no release, letting the pressure out in a series of tiny ruptures when what I need feels so much bigger, so much more urgent.