And here I am. I have been avoiding writing. There is no other way to say it, numbers on calendars are damaging. Just when I think, “ok. I made it. I have turned the page on this date” another date looks at me. And I look at it. And we look at each other. It’s grief. But it’s not really grief. It’s mismanaged emotions. It’s so untidy and annoying. I feel like this sadness is like walking into a room and catching a faint waft of something rotting and not being able to find it. It needs to go.

I made it past the day when I found out there wasn’t a heart beat. Ok. That’s over and done with. I don’t want to think about that date again. I don’t want to dwell on it next year. This year I taped over the day with amazing new and fun memories with my family. We took the bus to New York and we watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. I got to show W the city on the cusp of holiday magic and it was splendid.

I can’t believe I endured so long with death inside of me last year. There. That is what I keep thinking about. It’s ALL I want to write about. But I don’t and I won’t. Because I don’t want to put it out there and I honestly don’t want to look at the words as they come out. But my writer’s block has a specific shape to it and it looks like pages on a calendar.

I don’t know what would happen if I just poured my heart out into this space tonight. I have wailed into the space about death and loss and yearning for years. It is tiring to me, and yet I don’t think I have ever allowed myself to say just how upset I am that I went through it. I really and truly wanted another child and I had thought it was going to happen.

Writing just isn’t happening tonight. I start and stop. Maybe this dusting of the cobwebs, this small indication of what’s been going on, will be the first domino that allows me to just let go.

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