And so here you are, my dear, my sweet; each year your approach grows quieter and slower, yet quick at the same time—one moment there are goblins in the streets and the next day, you arrive.
With you comes memories of illness, sadness and death; with you, I replay that year, those four months, over and over and over again.
Somehow, when you whispered good morning to me this morning, the pit in my stomach didn’t open up and threaten to swallow me down into the darkness. Instead, there was a lightness to your words, to your breath in my ear.
What you were saying, I know, is:
What my bones heard was:
I was here to give you life, twice. The first time I gave birth to you, the second time I died because my work was done and from this death, my death, you were born again.
What my heart heard was this:
I am always with you, my heart inside your heart—and now, my love, my sweet girl, it’s time to revel in the love of the warm furry bodies around you.
It’s time to move and sweat and pray on your mat and fill it with the salt of your tears.
It’s time to go to bed early and snuggle with the covers wrapped around you, a book in your hands as you let your imagination soar.
It’s time to drink warm drinks and take long walks and bundle yourself in scarves and socks and everything warm.
It’s time to settle into who you are and know that this is how you get to live, again.
November, this year (and all the ones to follow) let’s be kind; let’s do our work and heal our wounds, and learn to love with grace—and fail and learn better the next day and the next.
Let’s talk about God and fear and death and hope and life.
Let’s talk about all of the things, because that’s what this life is for.
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