If and when

6 days before a scheduled C-Section, I found out my step mother (my momma) had 2-3 weeks to live. As much as she thought it would be her heart, from the years of living and yelling at my father, it would be cancer to do that fierce woman in.

3 days later I hid all signs of labor in order to dilate in peace and avoid a c-section that not only petrified me ...but delayed me two weeks of travel. 

3 days after Aeva was born, we were driving 13 grueling hours from Augusta Georgia to Miami.  

In the first few days I shut down to anything that didn't relate to learning the little being nuzzled to my chest in her Moby and drinking in the last I would see of my blonde green-eyed mother.

It was when I was standing in the shower at the end of the first week, hot water raining down on me, that I broke apart. 

I felt torn wide open physically and emotionally. I pushed too hard in labor, I had stitches where no one wants stitches, I had an empty swollen womb that still didn't comfortably allow waistlines. My boobs were raw from the first awful days of nursing a child with a bad latch, and tight from engorgement. I hadn't slept. I hadn't eaten. I both ached to hold my infant even then but wished my arms would hold just themselves up a little while. 

Instead my shoulders sagged and my world crumbled. My momma was leaving this earth and it grieved me, but I had brought my Aeva into this world against so many odds and for that I rejoiced. One tinged the other.  I cried hard for all the destruction in and out of my body and wondered if I would ever be able to come back from this desolation. If I would ever not feel like I had just been ripped from the middle up. 

I wondered if I could mend. 

Nearly 4 years ago a decade long marriage ended and I was suddenly irrevocably on my own with two small girls and zero answers. The only thing I knew was that my daughters needed proximity more than I needed pride or protection. I drove to Maryland from Texas. I wondered if the drive would ever end. In Maryland I quickly scrambled for a job after 3 years of being a stay at home mom. I hadn't finished college, I didn't have much money, a reliable car or home, nor much sanity left to speak of. I wondered if I would ever get hired. I wondered if I would make enough. How I would afford lawyers for two court cases.how I would manage two children full time as well as a job and mounting legal concerns. I wondered if I would survive. 

2 years ago I had massive orthopedic surgery. 

I'm pretty sure that if I wasn't so thickly drugged up when the nurses at Ellwood City hospital tried to wake me after surgery and I had some control of my tongue and lips I would of been yelling:

I REGRET IT!!

Instead all I got out were unintelligible moans of pain and discomfort. My whole left leg had been jigsaw puzzled and I think they tried jamming the wrong pieces together. 

To think the night prior I had promised myself I would run a 5k. Right then I doubted if I would even walk. 

The first time I met Steve I was 3 weeks post op and had just had two sadistic nurses clip and yank 60 steel staples from my two incisions. 

I was not a happy camper. 

Steve was way too chipper. 

What's more, he looked entirely fresh out of school and eyed my chart like a geek with a brand new science kit. 

'Fuck,' I thought. 'he's never seen this kind of surgery'

"Well, I've never seen this kind of surgery but I did a little research!"

Nailed it. 

Day one was full of measurements and briefing. 

While Steve ran me through range of motion measurements, or lack there of, we talked about time lines. 

How long on zero weight-bearing on the op leg?

When can range of motion be increased? 

When will partial weight-bearing be allowed? 

How long will you need to be on crutches? 

And then a new one: 

"What's your end goal?"

No one really asked that up until then. I mean, I had surgery in order to treat and cure AVN (avascular necrosis) in my femoral head. It's not really something you come out of with a goal. That's kind of the surgeons thing. You know: My end goal is to not cut up the wrong leg and manage to stitch it all up the right way. 

"I want to run a 5k."

I remember Steve unflinchingly nodding his head and smiling. 

Dude is way too damn positive. 

I wondered if he'd realize how absurd my goal was. I wondered if he forgot how torn up I was. 

The days that therapy was its worst, I sat in the shower at night and cried with self pity. Then self loathing. Then exhaustion.

I wondered if this roller coaster would stop. If I would feel normal and able. If I could overcome. 

"Not if, but when."

Steve always said it to me. 

"A 5k is not a matter of IF but WHEN you run it. And when you do, I want to see it"

July 2015 14:55 minute miles 

October 2015 12:53 minute miles 

Today I ran my 2nd race. In the cold rain with the wind saying "NO" and the ground proving difficult. 

I ran along side my childhood friend Evelyn, having flown to see me..whom I had wondered if I'd ever see again. 

I walked and ran and pushed through doubt and pain. 

I ran thru the Finish Line and straight for the can.

Each time I've had sight of a race's finish I get so excited I spontaneously gag and dry heave. I'm sure the camera man in my face caught me diving into the crook of my elbow hoping to staunch any mess. 

Like an overexcited dog, I get so worked up I hurl. While everyone around me thought I had simply pushed that hard for time I had merely pushed so hard for my When. I laughed between heaves and sank to my heels with simple happiness. 

Two almost feels better than one. It feels like continuity. Like healing. Like surviving. Like overcoming. 

Like...when I drove out all the if's. 

Mother's Day

"Sorry to break it to you Momma, but Mother's Day is cancelled this year again."

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, sitting up, hands on knees, your head aimed down like youre tired but you look up at me and smile. You shrug and push off, ambling towards the door.

Its barely daylight.

"Momma, its early and theyre still asleep. Its gonna be a busy day today, you dont get that rest."

We've made it to the kitchen where the first rays are crossing the living room through the balcony curtains to streak the cabinets and counter tops cleaned just last night. You've reached the coffee maker, filled up the pot and start counting the scoops of grounds.

"Didnt you hear me Momma?"

Pressing the start button, you nod.

To you, its like I didnt say a word and I didnt just cancel your day.

But I see you Momma.

I see you measuring ingredients and setting out plates just enough so that little hands that want to help can mix and pour all by them selves. I see you acting surprised when they run into the kitchen with eagerness to make you sweet cakes, eggies and toast for your Mother's Day. Giggling because they get to treat momma to breakfast.

"She'll be so happy!"

I see you cleaning up the mess, Momma. I see you doing the dishes.

I see your lap crowded with paper flowers you taught them to make, cards you gave them petty cash for, their inscriptions spelled out by you when they ask: "Momma, how do I spell Happy? One P or two?"

Yet still you smile wide as you read the proclamations of love outloud and shower each one with kisses.

I see you dressing those babies up so beautifully Momma. A brush barely through your hair but the little ones are prancing about in their best.

"Dont I look pretty for you now Momma?" they ask
"You always do."

I see you take them to the park Momma. I see you pushing them on the swing.

"5 more minutes Momma!"

I see you watching them each. Not sitting. Not reading. Not relaxing one bit.

The day is full of activity and the world seems to be out to celebrate their matriarchs; their mothers and grandmothers and aunts. They tote bouquets of lilies and chrysanthymums, tulips and roses. There are ballons and chocolates. New purses and certificates for massages. There are fathers to hold babies and give Momma a rest.

And I see you wiping dirty faces, holding discarded jackets and napkins.

I've seen you running to the school on your lunch because shes forgotten an instrument. Swearing that you ought to teach her a lesson in responsibility by not taking it, and yet you kiss her head before you go and never tell her so.

I see you, sick as a dog, but saving your sick days for those mornings when a Little doesn't feel well. For a field trip needing a chaperone. A teacher parent conference. A play. A day that would be more miserable missed at work while healthy than at that same desk feeling like death. 

I see the other mommas, more troubles than shoulders can hold but never too heavy laden to love their child. To stay up late for them, to go an extra mile. 

I see the Mommas that are Daddies too. 

Momma, there's no rest for you nor any that you'd take. 

I see you momma, this is a Mother's Day. 

What Grinds Me

I should probably own a Keurig by now.

Most mornings I wake up dazed and confused roused by my insistent alarm clock. Like a zombie I shuffle towards the coffee pot, palming my way around the kitchen island. Not sure why it works but if I close one eye and squint with the other, I can typically find the filters and ground coffee in 4.26 minutes flat. Sometimes absent-minded staring is required because I simply cannot remember what the hell im doing in front of the pantry.

4 or 5 heaping spoonfuls of coffee in a filter and a pot of water later I fat finger the big 'ON' button, and rest my head on the counter as perculating sounds start popping.

Sometimes I wait for it to finish, but days like today I dont. Cream and sugar already in my mug, I take the coffee pot off its base and pour.

There is an astounding congregation of black specs surfacing in my coffee. As coffee continues to drip onto the hot plate, I lift the lid and find that the filter folded over on itself and the coffee and grinds have flooded the reservoir. Now theres coffee spilling from the hot plate on to my counter so I return the pot and the hot plate hisses wildly.

From previous experience I know I just wont like the coffee grounds in my coffe and spooning them out wont save me from those that have already drowned and will ruin my last sip. What I need is to filter this sucker. Yea.

To be honest, Im spoiled. Usually this was Iris's morning routine. The kid once asked me if she could help make coffee for me and I let her. She makes a mean mug. Like, 3 spoonfuls too many per cup of water mean. But it perks me right up after growing in some chest hair.

Lately I have had to learn to do this all by myself.

If you have been reading me for a little while, you might have guessed that I share my kids with their father. What you may not know about was the 2 and a half year long custody battle I was fighting until just recently.

By recently I mean almost 3 months ago. I started this entry almost that long ago and then sat staring at the screen, shook my head and walked away. 

Sometimes my muse just doesn't want to talk to me. Sometimes I just don't want to talk to myself about this shit so I let it marinate.

This coffee however...wont be helped by marination. Is that a word? Marination? I cautiously placed a filter over a clean mug so as to re-filter the grinds out of my cuppa. I poured slowly, cautiously....all over the effing counter. and the side of the filter slipped and fell into my mug. Grinds man. Grinds in my coffee. AGAIN.

You know, divorce is hard. Wether amiable or not, its not an easy feat. Its not enjoyable and im pretty sure it will haunt me a good long while. But custody disputes? Those are traumatizing. For you, for your kids, for your wallet. Judges are not impatial. Money DOES dictate quality of defense. People hold grudges. Mean, deep, damaging grudges.

I started off the case as best as I could, but I am human. I have emotions and a demanding job and no sick days left sometimes. Ok...all the time. I literally have not had vacation time used for anything other than court or sick children in 3 YEARS. I let that frustration get the best of me. 

Worst part? It all haunted me in that court room for 3 long greuling days (3s not my number!) Nothing illegal. Nothing crazy. Just...nothing that resembled whom I am. Whom I wanted to be. 

Back when I had my accident, while I learned to walk again and hoped that I could...my entire life replayed itself. I vowed never to take health and life for granted again. 

In that court room, I saw the me that was Momma Bear. ANGRY Momma Bear. Fearful momma bear. The Defeated Momma Bear throwing punches wildly in her grief. That was not grace or poise or role model material. I stood at that fork in the road and decided...this is not whom I will ever be again. I won't allow a situation to take away from me. I could start over again. I don't NEED these grinds in my life. 

I have this handy little app on my phone that tells me just how much crap I eat every day. How bad it is for me and how I'll never lose weight this way. 

What I mean is, it's a calorie counter. For a while there everyday I'd go over my caloric allowance and it would shine all red and angry. So the next day I start again. Somedays id meet my allowance. Somedays I'd go over. Lately, I'm right on track. Until I remember the icecream bars in my fridge. Little red specks all over that app. I've quit trying on weekends. Far as I know, weekends don't exist to your metabolism. They're like free shots. If free shots mean anything resembling 'no points against'. But what the fuck do I know about sports to be making baseball references. Seriously. I guessed my march madness bracket. I'm just not a football fan! Every Monday though, I start again. 

At this point I'm just staring at my coffee mug. 

You ever just stared hard at something and willed it to FIX itself magically? That was me and that mug. I stood there, hands on opposite sides of this thing, leaning over, nose to rim. Willing it. To dissolve the grinds. It's right there. The sweet nectar of the Gods. Right. Beneath. The. Surface. 

I grab a spoon and try to fish out the specks but in goes the spoon and SCATTER goes the grounds. 

Fuck me. I just want java! The more I viciously scoop, the more coffee I'm dumping in the sink. I'm going to be late and this mug is defeating me at an alarming rate. 

In this world I have no idea what the future holds. 10 years ago I never imagined that I would be in Maryland, fighting a coffee cup, living alone in an apartment with part-time children, working in a produce company, nursing a bionic hip. 

I didn't want this. Still don't. But there's no plausible alternative I could want. I tried every avenue possible to stave off the inevitable. I lost patience. I started treading water. Frantically attempting to stay afloat a situation that just wasn't viable. I never wanted to make it this far in life only to start over again. To share my children and know that they live two lives in two households because that new-normal is in their best interest. Even if it grinds me, I can learn that something's aren't salvageable and that we can always start anew. 

I dumped the coffee full of grinds I couldn't filter out. I couldn't fix my error. Or what it did to my mug of joe. 

There's grinds in that coffee but it's not the coffee I HAVE to drink. 

New filter in the machine. 4 scoops. Not 3. Water. On. 

I can always start anew. 

I am not a lot

Here is a list of what I am NOT:

Im not a morning person.
Im not able to function without the sweet nectar of coffee.
Im not organized.
Im not into rabbit food or any of these fucking new age diets crap.
Im not thin.
Im not patient.
Im not a runner.
Im not typically safe for the general public's sensitivities.
Im not typical. Period.

Im also not thrilled about waking up and having to go to PT on the weekend before my 3rd mug of joe. Im fairly certain my therapist, Steve, came to this understanding when I stood infront of him receiving instructions. I was slightly hunched, a few degrees to the right, arms a la neanderthal, and eyes that were only open from the sheer force of raised eyebrows. In my workout get-up, I could of passed as an entrant in the local Zombie Run. As a zombie.

Jog in intervals on the treadmill he says.
"gnehhh..." I answer

He has the treadmill set up facing a window and I was so dazed by the sunlight I often forgot to change the speeds for the intervals.

Steve: Hows it going?
Me: Yes.
.....
Steve: ...Does it feel ok?...
Me: Oh. Yea. Knee? Dunno...stiff. Hip..uff...
Steve:...ok. Well...we will talk when youre done...

Pre-Surgery physical restrictions, Surgery, Post surgery 6-month no-weight bearing restrictions and pain....All those suckers added weight and my hips and ass are gluttons. They rake up any extra calories around and store it away. This is evident in my need to pull my shirt down in the back every few strides. Id like to punish the hoarders but we all know im an amazing cook and I just cant buy into the Quinoa craze.

Steve is the kind of physical therapist that is used to athletes. Hes used to working with them and as far as I know, is one himself.
I....am not.
Yet and still I am set up to run plyometric drills, hoping from square to square on the ground on the tips of my toes and quick-stepping through the taped off 'ladder' on the ground. I remind myself to buy a TIGHTER workout bra. Im squatting on the flat side of a Bosu Ball which is the #1 most awkward squat I have YET to achieve.

Steve takes measurements. Lift your leg. Rotate left. Rotate right. Dont let me push your leg up...now down. Now left. Now right. Strength, Range of motion, and flexibility measurements are jotted down as part of my re-evaluation today.

Steve: I rarely give out 5s. You have one 5 for quad strength. Most patients I receive, have not had hip or bone surgery. They come and go at a 3- or 3+ range. You have 4s. Congrats. You are technically at normal hip functionality.
Dont get too giddy. Watch that hip rotator. Its bad. And that ankle. Your 5k is no longer an if, but a when.

I am not entirely fixed.
But.
I am not fully broken.

Growing up in Miami, 60 degrees was the dead of winter. A freeze came at 55 degrees. God forbid 50 ever showed its face in the Sunshine State. We will go to work and school hours before a Category 4 Hurrican graces our shores, loading up on booze and food for the traditional Hurrican Parties, but its a state of emergency if we can see our breath when we exhale. No one goes to school. No one goes to work. We could DIE out there!

I think it was 60 degrees most of this afternoon so naturally we went to the park.

Both girls brought their bikes, walked them to a bench, and left them there while they used the play ground.

Aeva: Momma!! Come get me!

Aeva is running fast towards a green rubberized hill on the playground. Its steep and you need momentum to run up its side. Shes halfway there.

I take off.

I look like that Zombie I mentioned, or maybe like Igor but screw that Im gonna win this race!
I make it to the top, we butt-scoot all the way down and Iris turns to me with two hands up.

"You did it mom.... High five!"

Im not fast or smooth.
Im not still sitting on the bench watching from a distance either.

Theres a trail in the park that weaves through a forested area and into a garden with more trails, a lake, and an atrium. Iris stays behind in the park with our friend Chris, and Aeva asks me to take her on the nature trail for an 'adventure'.

Aeva: Momma, I need to exercise my legs. Can I run? Will you run with me?

She takes off. Steve said no running outside because there was ice on the ground.
But its 60 degrees and I dont see ice on the trail.

We run for a few minutes, winding through the forest and dashing around other people on the trail. My canter is hobbled. My steps are shorter on the left and quick to shift to my right. Aeva picks the road when we come to fork and she tells us when to pause before resuming. We cover about 2 miles. Maybe more. Aeva names the geese we see. The two that are snapping at each other and honking angrily she names after herself and her sister. Pretty accurate if you ask me.

Aeva: I like running with you.
Me: I like running with you too.

Im not a runner.
Im not giving up yet.

Fowl Name Play

"Momma, I saw a seagull at 'Ani's house today!"

Theres lots of snow on the ground and were far from a coast, but I dont want to ruin Aeva's story.
"Oh man!"

"...a seagull mom?.." Iris doesnt share my enthusiasm.

"Actually momma, it looked more like an eagle..."

"Now THATS a cool bird Aeva"

"Actually momma...it looked like a seagull AND an eagle!"

"Thats a pretty silly bird kiddo..."

"A seagull mixed with an eagle?! Aeva that would be an Ea-gull...wait no... a Sea....gle...Nevermind."

The irony of it escapes Aeva but Iris and I have a shared love for word play. Ive discovered that lately and Im grasping at it like a lifeline.

Recently Iris and Aeva had a meeting with a nice lady at the local court house. The lady is assigned to our case and has been looking into how the girls live with each parent. Officially, shes evaluating my ex and I. To the girls, shes talking about 'mommies and daddies', a popular subject for the blondies lately. A soreness for me.

Its no secret that Ive had practice being the hybrid mom-dad parent for a while. My ex is in the military and has been pretty much the girl's entire lives. There have been training periods, deployments, oversea unaccompanied assignments, unit events, and other things that meant momma was on double duty. The difference now is that its not temporary and there is no headquarters to confer with on wether small child should be allowed to keep her hippy hair tendencies, or if Iris would truly benefit from piano classes right now, or if she should have an augmented allowance, nor anyone to dutifully discuss how to handle the small child's amusing yet slightly worrisome take on scissors:

"Momma...im not allowed my safety scissors anymore."
"Why?? wait...where??"
"At daddy's house...Cerberus...."
"Cerb? What did you do to Cerberus? Did you cut the dogs hair?!"
"No...I dont think so...I think it just...fell off...yeah. It fell off!"
"It fell off...the dog's hair FELL off??"
"Yes."

She stood by this. No matter what innocent excuse I tried to offer her in exchange for a confession....she STUCK by spontaneous hair expulsion on our old dog. It obvious that in her father's household the course of action was decided: Scissors were banned. What do I do in mine though? Who do I consult with? The incident cant even be talked about with him because we just dont communicate. Not right now anyhow.

Yet, I have an easy understanding with Aeva. She seeks to please her momma and will always, no matter how upset she gets at me for disciplining her, Aeva will come back to my lap seeking solace and cuddles. She had significantly less time in a mom AND dad household. Shes only ever really known the hybrid parent.

But Iris.
Although the fued in that child's heart and mind has been almost entirely invisible to the public eye, I've seen the struggle in her. Shes blamed me. Shes blamed him. Shes blamed both of us. Shes held herself entirely responsible. She comes to terms and then slips again. Ive watched her, wanting to comfort her but coming close has shut her down. Staying near by has made her resentful. There has been no way to bridge the gap because bridges were lost when her father and I split.

Iris has always been a Daddy's Girl. The first thing the court appointed evaluator told me when I entered her office after my children had privately spoken to her was:
There is no doubt that Iris is exactly her father's image as surely as Aeva is yours.
They look alike, speak alike, think alike and have so many common interests that I will admit...I have felt alienated from their connection since she was so very very little.

Ive been building bridges to Iris. Ive thrown out hand rails and boards for her to use. Ive learned to teach her my kitchen craft in baking as her father has taught her how to cook. We've taken up needle and thread. Word play. Harry Potter. TEXTING.  We've discussed social studies via text when we cant be together and Ive found that we understand ourselves best in written words.

This hybrid parent stuff, its difficult. Its taxing. Mothers are natural nurturers, fathers are discipliners. Hitting a mid-point between both is nearly impossible most days.

The final court dates are rapidly approaching and soon everything will be finalized. It gives me a deep ache I worry will never be eased.

I dont miss being married. The majority of the marraige was trouble and heartache for both. I dont miss the unhappiness.
I miss the parenting. I miss being able to be just mom, even if I had to wait 12 months for a deployment to come to an end. I miss sharing the mutual responsibility of the children that are equally belonging to both of us. I miss knowing that the other person loves the child truly too.

Now its me, late at night, talking to myself:

Well, she cut the dogs hair. No doubt about it. I should take away scissor.
NO. Taking them away only enforces the taboo and hightens the obsession.
But is it worth risking her chopping off her hair, or her sisters hair...or ours??!
Shut up. Youre missing the big picture. Scissors stay.

Its me watching Iris at her birthday party:

Can you believe it? 10 years...
To think we nearly lost her.
Yes but she survived and those 2 weeks of hell in NICU are well behind us.
Now we worry more about training bras.
Really?! Training bras? Thats what you worry about?
Well its better than boys.
WTF, shes TEN! Shes into Harry Potter! Shell be single a long while so long as she remains this much a nerd!
Youre right.....Im redoing her wardrobe a la Hogwarts stat.

Its me deciding wether I should push for Kindergarten testing for Aeva a year early. Its me deciding wether or not to pull Iris from a school with a bullying issue.

While being a hybrid is tiresome, I think I fear bringing someone else in to my monologues in parenting more than the exhaustion from doing it alone. What if he doesnt love them like I do? Of course he WONT, but what if he doesnt get close at all? What if relationship wise were a match, but hes not a strong parenting match. What then?

Its late and now Im having this monologue with the computer screen and keys I can see when I squint (my contacts are dry). The amount of grammatical and spelling errors are sure to be high but Im way too fucking tired to care today. Ive been a Momdy and a Dadmy something fierce lately and I guess much like Aeva's genetically confused fowl, it doesnt much matter how I divvy it up as long as I can still make it fly right?

Damn skippy.

Loose ends

I wrote this years ago in the middle of an anguished time in life full of fear of being forgotten. 

I've not been shy about my biggest fear in a long long time. Why hide it? Secrets...they seem especially sweet to the evil and perverse. They find it exquisite to lord it over you: 'see? I've something no one knows. I've cause to have you hide. To have you run.'

But no secrets stay secret for ever. I ousted mine years ago as a peace offering to life. As a plea to others. 

"See here! This is my fear. I beg of you.. Do not bring it against me. "

I fear abandonment.

Being left so swiftly and without a speck of regard. This act of purposely forgetting someone because they meant nothing. 

Severing ties that bind. 

I wrote this then and yet it still hovers over me. So I beseech anew: do not hold this blade over my neck...

Loose Ends 

I dont think you can remember me
Feels like its been ages
but counting back...weve hardly been apart
what happened way back when, can you tell me what started it all?
Ive loose ends i want to tie...like laces on a shoe
because they keep on tripping me as i walk this life
catching a foot forward by the foot thats on the back
Ive tried so hard to reach down to them
those white strings of lies 
and every time i go for them...i loose my sight and fall
Im laying here now, on the pavement, on the ground
The laces seem so far from me
I wonder if theyll be found
Somewhere far along the length of me...scars now, scars..
Resting my cheek on the gravel i stretch my arms out to the front
Dont think im reaching forward
I want to be helped up
This time its not so easy to dust the old knees off
The dirt is all over me, seething painful in my mouth
And still i think of yesturday
White lines white lace white lies
A color so easy tarnished
Except in the mind
I cant look to them, im sure i could curl up and glance
To think that they may still be unraveled
Far better that than I
looking back to see the ends shear cut off
nothing left of those strands
for me to tie back up

Gone

I was turning the lock on my front door the other day and I had an unbidden image of you come upon me. It was of you in the living room in your momma’s arms being your usual cuddly self. As I opened my door wide into my empty and dark apartment, the image was replaced by pink balloons. Your memorial balloon release on that chilly November morning; Aeva in my arms and the wind tangling the mass of helium filled latex into a nearby tree.  It was almost funny enough to laugh. But it got caught up in my throat instead. Then and once again, now.

My children leave every other weekend, for a few days, to be with their dad. They were not here this weekend, but tonight, they are.

Gone. Then back again. Gone. Then back.

Their rooms are quiet always when they aren’t here. I like it that way. I can almost imagine that they’re just in the other room and their scent, sweet and mine, can be taken in from their rumpled sheets.

They are MESSY children. They leave their imprints everywhere in the house. I trip over shoes and dolls and find panties strung like little banners where a child tried to kick it into a basket. And missed.

But they show proof of existence.

Gone. But back again.

I have held on to hand-me-down clothing given to me for my littlest in a green tub that now stands in the middle of their room, overflowing with articles both girls have dug through. Clothes that, when I first received them, I could not imagine Aeva growing into any time soon.  That was yesterday. Or so it seems.

You feel like yesterday to me. Like Friday evening, home without kids because they are visiting dad. Going down to VA to hang out with friends. Too busy to call home because weekends away are fun.

My Friday evening, before going home, involved a stop at the Postal Office. As I’m sure you know, I have a love hate relationship with the post office. Having to find one, getting in line, finding the right shipping thinga-majig…this all based on if I even REMEMBER to make it to the post office on time. Or at all.

In the post office I picked up a poster mailer. From my bag I pulled out a sketch book I hadn’t touched in a while, full of partial pencil sketches and abandoned ideas. The last few weeks I have been sketching in ink, drafting rough little images of Iris’s sweet smile and Aeva’s dramatic poses. I see these girls almost every day, and yet my sketches show messy lines and blurred features now and again.

In my sketch book there’s a drawing of you. Bold and clear lines. I never picked up a pencil, and once I had decided on your image, I never needed a second page. I wanted to draw you smiling, like I could see you in my Yesterday and like I described you a year ago.

I couldn’t.

My mind couldn’t wrap around your little smile that lifted just a little higher on the right. My fingers couldn’t curve it. I drew you as I knew you to be inside: Wise. Looking back at me as though the past two years you’ve been growing up somewhere away from here.

Gone. Not yet back again.

But when those balloons cleared from sight, I struggled to comprehend again that you’re gone. You’re not home in Georgia, or away anywhere I can reach you at. How can that be possible? I have a set of your PJs, worn down by Aeva’s insistent use of them. I have the little cast. The pictures.

How does anyone, anything, GO…and not come back?

I drew you with curls. It was one of the last touches I had of your sweet physical form. The crazy waves of curls crashing around your face, hiding all the traces of cancer on your little head. Refusing to be destroyed. I loved their rebellion.

Your momma and daddy just got that package. I didn’t tell them about it. It was my gift to them for your 2nd angelversary.

Every morning I pull my clothes from the same dresser where your memorial is placed. There’s a scent so sweet there I cannot explain but it smells of clean, and home, and love. I must havewalked by it a million times since I moved you there. Last week it made me stop. I sniffed every article of clothing, checking against the fresh laundry out of the dryer…trying to pin-point its origin. Why it seemed so nostalgic. It’s when I looked up at the Jasmine candle I set by you that I realized where it came from. It reminds me to start my day with love towards my children whom soon will grow up so quickly that today will only feel like Yesterday.

I realize now, you’re a messy little girl yourself. You’ve left imprints of your existence everywhere so thick that two years do not begin to diminish the memory of you in my Yesterday. Little banners of life that string up across everyday life, stopping me in my tracks and reminding me that you were here. Proofs of your existence that don’t fade like the strewn laundry and the toys of my daughters.  Proof that is more resistant to time than your scent, which unlike my own twos’, can’t be replenished with a snuggled night. Your life made use of my grief and fashioned it into a compass. To remember. To cherish. To be messy with my existence and love.

The grief that feels like its gone. Yet rolls right back again.

My lost sense of direction.

Gone. Then back again.