I’ve been absent from here for a long time. I’ve started at least a dozen posts I never finished. However, that in no way means I’m not still missing Lucy. Life is very busy, even during these very uncertain times, but there isn’t a day that goes by without my girl in my thoughts or actions. I finally decided to stop guilting myself for not always writing to her, about her, or in honor of her, but by no means does that imply I don’t still grieve for my daughter who died. She is always with me, though now all I have are the tiny rituals I have to honor her.

Tiny rituals like replenishing the fresh flowers where we keep her urn, starting in Spring and on through Autumn. I prefer picking whatever is in season right here in our yard, because that’s what I would have shared with her if she were here, as I share those tiny blossoms with her brother now. It’s such a tiny gesture, but it’s mine, and it’s for her only. Just like whenever I’m in the shower, I draw hearts or write her name on the curtain where the steam accumulates… I don’t know why I do that, but I always have since I returned home without her. It’s a daily thing, and it comforts me. I am the only one who really sees these things, but they’re daily rituals that help me reinforce that she is with me daily, always, forever. I wish with all my heart that I could have more than these insignificant little gestures to celebrate her presence in my life, but it’s all I’ve got.

My dear friend asked me last week how “all that” was going. I was caught off guard because no one, I mean no one, ever really asks me that anymore; it made me love her all the more. But the truth is, I was at a loss when it came to really explaining to her how all that is going… as I still am right in this moment. I tried to explain how, starting around April or May each year (it’s been a few years, so now I’m recognizing some grief patterns), my heart begins to ache more than usual. Though Lucy’s birthday isn’t until August, I start to feel the physical ache much, much sooner. I begin seeing the children who were born around the same time she was reaching the next milestones she ought to be reaching. They’re all starting to turn four this year. Right now. Four. I see the photos and read the loving captions on social media, and I ache. My daughter died, so she won’t be turning four. There it is, that phrase: my daughter died. That’s the phrase that will never be untrue. That’s the thought I live with every. single. day. It’s something that will never go away. Yes, time softens the constancy of that emotional pain, but it doesn’t eliminate the waves of grief. It’s part of my story, no matter what else happens in my life. And while I don’t wish to be completely defined by loss, I know that it has shaped me into the woman I am in this moment and the future. There’s no getting around that. Love is love, and it doesn’t fade simply because we can’t physically be together. That’s an undoubtedly universal sentiment, but it’s even more so when you’ve lost a child.

I wish I could say that it goes away, but it doesn’t. There’s no “getting over” your child departing this world, there just isn’t. It will always hurt. It will always be unfair. It will always be part of you.

I wear sadness easily now. Not all of the time, just very easily. Sometimes I can remain stoic, sometimes I crumble. Living for me means living with loss, but it also means embracing joy more fervently. The paradoxes are endless, but it is what it is. It’s been nearly four years, but I can say with honesty that I’m still not always okay. I am forever changed, but please know too that I am forever stronger.

For now, I’ll keep clinging to those tiny rituals… Lucy is part of my every day in one way or another. As much as it hurts to only have those tiny things, I am still grateful.