Preschool enrollment forms glare at me as I type.
Stacked at the computer they have been sitting partially completed, for a month.
The first several lines are penned in my neatest, I-will-be-the-best-classroom-volunteer-ever handwriting.
The rest is blank.
My perfect penmanship ends right after the line that asks for a list of siblings and their ages.
Do I include their sister?
Put “deceased” in the column where I should be listing her age?
Do I add a note about their past?
Request that they not be called twins before anyone makes the mistake?
I don’t have the answers to these questions so, instead,
I haven’t done a thing.
The reminders of loss are never ending:
the empty space I can find in any picture of my children,
the look on my daughter’s face when there is no one else to appreciate her latest dress,
the tears that surprise me when I least expect them.
Grief continues to rumble through our lives.
I have been following the story of another triplet mom who, sadly, just said goodbye to her son.
Thinking of her just beginning this journey makes my heart ache.
I want to tell her that it will get better, and in some ways it will.
Putting one foot in front of the other and not crying every moment that you are alone, those things get easier.
But the pain and the reminders and the emptiness?
They will always be there.
We will both be sifting through the rubble for years, sorting out life after the unthinkable.
But there is something about digging through the gray and the dismal that makes you appreciate every piece of color racing through your hands.
Reminding you to keep pushing through the aftermath
and treasure every speck of brilliance you still have.
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