Today marks seven months since Anja died. I want to tell everyone I know that no, I do not feel better. I am not getting better. I still hurt. I am still bewildered and enraged and terribly sad.
But no one asks, so I don’t say.
Thank god for you, who read here and who write your own bewilderment, rage and sorrow. Without you, I’d know for certain I was mad; because you’re here, I see that what I feel is ‘normal.’ I am a bereaved mother. I wanted to scream it all day long: my daughter died, my daughter died, my daughter died.
Instead, I dropped E off at daycare. I worked. I shopped for dinner and cooked it. I sat on the lawn with E and R outside our building and ate cherries and laughed. I carried on. I carried on because there is nothing else to do.
I miss you, Anja. I wish you were here. I wish you weren’t so terribly, bewilderingly, unendingly gone.