December 16, 2012
I live in the woods. At the end of a dirt road. In a small town. I spend my days surrounded by nature and the birds.
I homeschool our children. I spend nearly every waking hour with them close by, except for the hours they are outdoors - in the woods and at the river.
I don't worry about them in the woods. I think twice when they are at the river. And in spite of my warning and their obedience, I walk down to see how they are doing to make myself feel better.
But every time I drive to town or they go, without me, I wonder for the briefest of moments, "is this our last goodbye?" I don't utter these thoughts but I never say goodbye without, "I love you."
Damien thinks this morbid question is crazy. He says it never occurs to him.
The dangers that worry my mother's mind are logging trucks and deer in the dark. Not deranged men in public spaces.
We hug and kiss, the baby and I. My youngest, newly ten, who when she was a toddler and preschooler was teased about wanting to return to the womb, she was so attached to me.
Her and I we hug hard. Her pink lips press my cheek. She stands on the step waving to me as as I go. This, when I drive to town for a couple hours.
I am trying to process the events of past couple days. My life feels so removed from the realities of this gruesome situation and I simply can't comprehend it.
I am at a loss for words. Which is a smidge of nothingness compared to the loss of a child.
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