I have entered into the annual season where my grief pulls up a chair to my kitchen table and makes herself comfortable.
Don’t get me wrong, she is always there but she isn’t always this close.
She isn’t always this present.
But I’ve learned through the years to just sit with her as we reflect over the years.
We share a laugh over the funny memories and pass a box of Kleenex back and forth as we shed tears over the devastating moments.
She rides shotgun as I travel up and down the road.
She is in the restroom as I shower.
And her hand rests on my shoulder as I rock my sweet little boy to sleep.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t hide from her.
Because the trauma of everything I have endured, bubbles up and erupts like a volcano and before I realize it, my face is stained with tears…..
And I’ve also learned that one day, without me fully realizing it, she will push her chair back away from the table, pack up her things and retreat back to her place in the guest bedroom…
Because she is never too far and she sticks her head out from time to time, just enough so that no wonderful moment truly feels complete.
She always reminds me that something is missing…..
She lets me know that I should have an almost 9 years old son running around the house.
She reminds me that I should be celebrating Kolin’s 6th birthday in July and not April.
She reminds me that I’ve never experience the joys of having a normal, healthy pregnancy.
She reminds me that the whole “until death does us part” part came way too soon.
And during these moments, my mask slips, and I don’t have to be the strong, brave Ashley that the world sees.