I'm in a tough situation right now. It's one I knew I'd have to face, and I know I will face it many, many times over the next few years. It is the end of the school year. This would have been the end of Brittany's 8th grade year. She would be graduating from Middle School and moving on to High School. I have seen pictures of her friends in new dresses going to the end of the year dance. I see them getting their schedules for High School, and I can't help but feel sad that none of these pictures include Brittany. How would that night have gone with her? How nice would it have been to go shopping for the perfect dress? Would she want me to help her with her hair, or do it all on her own? Which classes would she be taking? Would she be scared, or excited to move on to a new, bigger school? I see life moving on around me, but I still feel stuck in the same moments 5 1/2 months ago. I'm not able to move forward with my daughter. While other mothers are celebrating with their daughters, chatting at night with them to see if that cute boy they have a crush on asked them to dance, I am crying on my pillow remembering how I stroked my baby's hair, hoping she wasn't afraid of what was to come. As these girls giggle and tease, I go to the cemetery to water her flowers. When forms are signed to enroll for High School, I talk to a hard, cold piece of marble, hoping somehow my words can be heard. As these girls, who I truly love so dearly, grow up and become beautiful women, and mothers, my daughter, who is always in every thought I have, slowly decomposes in the ground.
Here is just another part of what life is like for me now. I will embrace my other children's lives, and all their achievements. But I can't help but feel the emptiness of what could have been, what should have been.
I hate what death has taken from me. I hate what death has left me with. And at times I hate God for allowing it to happen, possibly even making it happen.
There are times, when I feel like Brittany's death really was meant to be. That it was all part of the "plan" from before any of us even took our first breath. But there are other times that I feel we have been forgotten, left alone to fight the night, and the cold all alone.
On another note, this afternoon, I had gone to the cemetery to water Brittany's flowers and anchor down the flower stand she has. It's very rare there are others at the cemetery while I am there, but with Memorial Day in just two days, there have been an increase in visitors. I watch them silently, wondering what memories they are remembering. Wondering how they heal. And then after a kiss good bye for Brittany, I turn and leave.
I had added some more flowers recently, and when John got home from work, I asked him if he'd like to go back to the cemetery with me and see them. It had only been a couple of hours since I had just been there. As we pulled up next to the gate, I noticed right away that there were two new pinwheels placed at Brittany's grave. I quickly glanced the rest of the cemetery, and noticed there were a lot of new pinwheels. I have taken note in the past of other graves of children, and noticed that each of them had pinwheels. These are graves I visit often, cleaning off weeds, replacing flowers the wind has blown over, and just letting that child know someone was there to see them that day. But until now, I had never realized how many there were. Our cemetery is quite small, even with as old as it is. But out of the the entire cemetery, I counted 52 pinwheels, spinning in the wind. That is just how many I counted for where I was currently standing. That doesn't include any that where blocked from my view by other headstones, or that the wind had blown away. It broke my heart. So many young lives. So many babies. So many mothers, fathers, and siblings whose lives will forever be changed. But as much as I was touched with sadness, I was also touched, even more with love for whoever had taken the time, spent the money, and remembered each of those young lives. It made an impression on my heart that I will always remember. That small act of kindness to so many families has helped to heal this broken heart, just a bit. Thank you to whoever you are. Someday I hope to know who you are so that I can hug you, and leave a tear on your shoulder.
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