Nine years ago today, Anya was born. Nine years.
It seems so hard to believe that this much time has passed since holding her in my arms. My firstborn, and my first beautiful baby.
Although I still think of her often, these days I don't quite know how to visualize her. Is she still that baby? Is she a nine year old girl? Both, and neither? With time, it feels like her image is blurred in my mind, and the lack of a clear focused picture makes it difficult to connect to her, including when I stop by her headstone to clean out the weeds or just say hello.
I want to stay connected. To me, the notion of being at peace with her death means continuing to feel that connection. Continuing to feel love, and warmth. But is that what being at peace truly means?
Kayleigh and I had a good discussion this morning about the evolution of our grief. As distance takes hold, and sadness isn't an open and obvious part of it, is it genuine peace? Or is "peace", in a sense, building a wall against the negative feelings over time - feelings that are inextricably linked to the love we feel, and directly at odds with the idea of staying connected?
On the other hand, maybe in a sense, there is only so much negative emotion that one can conjur up - like a well that eventually runs dry. And maybe connection has to take a different path. But that in itself feels like a different kind of loss, since that sadness has been so closely linked with some of the deepest love I've ever felt.
I don't know the answer. But I'll keep reflecting.
