two whole hands

Life has required more courage than I anticipated.

I remember when I thought growing out my bangs was a tough year.

Celia's been gone for a decade now, two whole hands. 

It's hard to stop counting backward. No matter how clearly I define her distance, I cannot pull my daughter back to me. Ten years and it's still a shock that she's not here, asking for the other half of my bagel, rolling her eyes at whatever I've said. I miss her, the kite tail of a memory, her death so far behind most of the world may barely see it. 

Traditionally, tin or aluminum is known to commemorate a ten year anniversary, symbolizing durability and resiliency. On Saturday we looked at photographs and read old blog posts, recounted stories and shared a few tears. I can still picture a trace of delight across her face, recall the way her hair felt in my fingers. I loved her, one brother said, the words right there, he didn't have to reach for them at all. 

There's a lie that perpetuates: if you’re grateful enough you can’t feel the grief.

This is undeniably wrong. Here is my joy right beside my sorrow, my rage right next to my gratitude. 

I was born with braids in my hands. 

I don't know how to explain the misery of mourning not only the loss of a child but also the grand narrative of a life together. The mystery unsettles me.

I don't know what to do with my hands, stitch a cross, wash a dish, write a sentence.

I don't know what to do with my heart except let it break and love with it. 

The world feels so full of everything I haven't lost yet.