The first few days are hazy. The door bell rings continuously. Flowers fill the house, the scent of lilies beautifully overpowering. Gifts arrive, sent before you left, whilst I tell myself that because you knew how much we love you, how much other people love you and how we want you to live out your own path that you knew it was okay if you moved on to that Great Good Thing you were meant for.
The phone rings. People come by, their faces wary and pained. Your father and I are seldom apart. I sleep, worn out, slightly confused and tender. I cry, I stare out the window, I laugh. We make jokes that people might find strange but that we have to make because laughter, well, is a miracle worker.
I never did tell you that you reminded me of the Dude in THE BIG LEBOWSKI, did I?
And so we go to Italy. We walk and talk and hold hands and cry. We laugh and eat and read. Sunlight dapples, snow swirls and for the most part, no one finds us to demand anything, need anything, ask for anything, to check our pulses. The Arno swirls through Florence and Pisa and we sit on our last day in Italy outside a cafe by the sea, just thinking and holding hands, thinking about you, about the siblings we hope you'll have, about each other. We are just together in a way that we had not been for several months, for so many reasons. And we come home.
I packed up your clothes last night. Softly, softly cracks the heart. Crying just a bit, because you would have looked so sweet in this and look, the little scratch mittens. Your dad goes back to work, I can touch my toes, the crocuses are blooming and life moves on, just not the way one thinks it will.
Now, if I could really just get the milk to stop coming in at those 'socially inopportune' moments. . .