Coming home to what would have been

Our week away was wonderful and much needed in so many ways.  I hardly thought about Oliver at all.  There were a few families with small children; so few that when we did see them my emotional reaction was jolting but thankfully it only happened a few times. It was a relief to have a vacation from the grief.

Coming home was more difficult that I anticipated.  Besides being hit with the expected wave of daily responsibilities there was also the brick wall of remembering. There were the photos around our home and our home itself, plus I was greeted with this magazine cover in our mail pile:

I can't stand to look at it but I can hardly tear my eyes away.  I don't dwell on the fantasy of "what would have been."  It is like a secret painting that I am fully aware of but intentionally keep behind a closed curtain; like consciously avoiding an addictive substance.  But occasional situations or images like the one above slam down hard and I am equally mesmerized and stricken. 

They look so happy.  Elsa's hair should be darker and browner but she's got that funny expression.  Nora's really a blondie with only a bit of strawberry but she has that sweet love-y smile and she loves her babies.  But that's him.  Those blue eyes and those cheeks.  And the chubby wrists.  And the hair.  My hair never looks like that when I'm having "quality time" with the kids (or hardly ever for that matter).  But that's him.  Even those funny little lips. 

Grief is taking different forms these days for us.  There are emotional days woven in and out of our weeks, but daily living has mostly normalized around basic routines. I recognize the "grief brain" taking over when I have severe difficulty focusing my thoughts on what to do next in the day, or I dread going to bed for fear of where my thoughts will turn as I fight insomnia, or I've driven past the familiar turn three times and the girls ask "mommy, why are we turning around again?", or I find myself rudely staring at my friend's baby or rudely pretending like he or she is not there.  

The girls are well and still very matter-of-fact about everything.  They talk of Oliver (and to him) frequently; he is still Nora's imaginary companion, and Elsa loves to make new pages in her memory scrapbook for him.  I believe God uses our daughters to help us heal by keeping us focused on his promises and the truths of eternity that we explain them again and again in response to their questions.  

We have had a busy summer and anticipate a full autumn.  I am thankful for both the distractions from our grieving that have provided relief, but also for the countless reminders that painfully drag me back in to the process of growing and healing.