A Secret Place

You packed in the morning and I
Stared out the window and I
Struggled for something to say
You left in the rain
Without closing the door
I didn't stand in your way
But I miss you more than I
Missed you before and now
Where I'll find comfort, God knows
'Cause you left me
Just when I needed you most.

"Just When I Needed You Most" - Randy VanWarmer

I fancy myself a story-teller, mostly of sad stories. Some of you understand this. Some of you don't. Some of you understand but are sick of hearing about it. Some of you are non-committal in regard to your feelings. Some of you will never read this. Some of you will. I write for me, though. I've never been one for therapy. I think it's wonderful, but I vehemently disagree with the repression or reappointment of feelings. If I'm sad, I'm sad. If I'm not, I'm not. Period. I take refuge in my grief at times - it's all I have left to cling to, it seems. I was just like all of you. We all grew up. We were told we could be anything. Some of us exceeded our wildest dreams, others did not. Hopefully we all found a happy place and became solid citizens and purveyors of good things in the world. I think I did. I married. I had babies. I was a very, very good mother. My children never wore disposable diapers, drank out of bottles, had pacifiers, or ate baby food out of jars. None of those things are wrong. I just did things this one certain way. I thought it was best. I thought this was what really good mothers did. Who knows. Things were GREAT for a long time. But, life gets tough. We all make mistakes - I certainly did. Then, everything changed. My baby died.

Everyone knows my story. One day I took my daughter to the mall and bought her first prom dress. Three weeks later, she was buried in that dress. It all happened so fast. It's been three years since that horrific event. Three years ago I was in shock and couldn't form words with my mouth. Two years ago, I was very sick and very sad. One year ago I was pretending like everything was perfectly fine. This year, I'm not sure where I am, exactly. Better? Yes. Normal? Not so sure. Healed? Never. I miss her so deeply. Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I am still a mother. Still a woman. Still a person. I still struggle. I watch my boys struggle. I see my mother struggle. Without sounding pathetic or angry or jaded, I know I'm not special. Parents lose children everyday. I'm thankful I only lost one.

I dream about her incessantly. That's one thing that changed in the last year. For a long time I never dreamed of her. Now, that seems to be all I do. My dreams are like my grief. It makes me so sad, but it's all I have left of her. Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine her voice. Her laugh. Her feet. These things blur with the passage of time and the mind's attempt to salvage some sanity. But, the dreams......are......amazing. They heal me and hurt me all at the same time. Take, for instance, this one.

She is eight years old. We are taking a family vacation. It's a cruise, I believe. We're all packed in a van with innumerable people of all sorts of nationalities. We seem to be on the way from the airport to our cruise-ship. We're laughing. She's tired and sweaty and very irritable. I decide we should all sing. Grudgingly, I convince everyone to follow suit. Laughs. Smiles. Harmonies. Then, suddenly she's not there. No one can find her. We tear the van from stem to stern, but no little girl. The ship sails without her and I am held captive by my fear and panic. Everyone is looking. Oddly, little pieces of her surface around every corner. I find her flip flop on the Lido deck. I spot her tiny gold hoop earring in the toilet. I pick her pink plaid headband up in the formal dining room. She's leaving me clues. "Find me, momma", she seems to be saying. I look. And look. And look. Months later, I'm leaving the grocers to head home one evening when I see her favorite barrette in the parking lot next to my car. I know, then, that she's back. I just know. Racing in my front door, I scream her name. She comes bounding down the stairs into my arms. Little tanned body, precious ponytail, scented with my special body lotion she's not supposed to use without my permission....she's perfect. She smells like angel wings. I am complete again. I tell her I never stopped looking for her. I tell her I could hear her calling for me in the distance. I tell her I cried so hard. I tell her, my sweet cherubic girl, that I knew she was somewhere. But, where? She can't tell me, or won't tell me. "Don't worry about that", she says. I tell her I felt her. I tell her that every night, right before I fell asleep, there was a tiny little place, a secret place that no one else knows, where I tried to slip through. I thought, if I could wiggle past that space, that I could find her. She looks at me, eyes wide and wild, equal parts amazed and scared. "Don't ever do that! Promise me you will never try to do that. It's not safe. You aren't ready to come there yet. It's not time. You wouldn't be welcomed there. Promise me you won't follow me, mommy."

And then, she was gone. Again. I will wait for her here, until the next dream.