I remember when I truly thought that life could never be good again. When I though I would have to endure the skin-crawling agony of those early days, months, years forever. That I would never be happy. That the loss would always be as excruciating. I suppose it is as excruciating. But it isn’t so present. It’s a constant hum but only rarely now a genuine wail. I miss her. I wish she had lived. But today I picked out a cake with pink rosettes and I didn’t cry. I went sledding with M and whooped in genuine abandonment to the joy of the moment, the speed, the snow flying in our faces, the feeling of his still-little body in front of me on the sled. I helped E with her homework and didn’t once think of how eight years ago I was just being induced to deliver Anja. It’s all there; it shifts and shimmers behind everything else, all the busynes of our regular lives that are, indeed, – after all this time – regular. I miss her. I love her. Tomorrow she would be eight. An impossible number. An impossible loss to comprehend but somehow folded into the fabric of this messy life, our messy lives, this family.

We love you Baby Cheeses. We love you sweet baby girl. We love you, endlessly, always, ours.