A while back, one of my Facebook friends said, on a status about having to call the insurance company to tell them Psalm had died, that it's the everyday things that get you the most. He was right, of course, in more than just dealing with the insurance company.
I didn't commemorate a week of her death, or a month. Her due date was commemorated with her memorial service. I don't foresee myself especially marking three months, or six, but perhaps I will. Right now, grief is at the same high level every day, and there's no reason for me to stop and say "Oh, it's been this long", because it all feels like one long day.
Still, it's the everyday things that get you. The van is parked, broken down, and to go anywhere we walk half a mile to the bus stop and as we go I feel Psalm's lack; she should be tied to my chest in the mei tai, carried along up next to my heart.
Halloween is a favorite holiday of ours (as so many other people), and when I first found out I was due in late October I started thinking of a teeny tiny Halloween costume and it fucking sucks to be walking through Wal-Mart and see all the tiny little Halloween-themed onesies and pajamas and have no baby to buy them for.
And there are babies everywhere; October is high time for them because January is so cold. Some time ago, at Wal-Mart to buy some things we needed, I saw a tiny little brown-haired baby girl who couldn't have been more than a week or two old, as Psalm would have been, and I had to go outside and cry where her parents couldn't see me. San Antonio is a bad town to have brown-haired baby girls make you cry, but I have since discovered that seeing any newborn hurts like hell. Clearly, I should just stop going out, but of course that is not practical.
I can feel her with me. Not a ghost, unless ghosts are a manifestation of the survivors' sadness, but she was my sixth child and after five children you know how a baby feels in your arms. And my arms are empty, but I can feel where she should be; I can feel her small weight as though she were there, and perfect. I think often of how much she looked like her daddy, and how dark and wavy her hair was and how like Marie she would be. Strong, stubborn little girl.
Grief is a strange thing.