This.
About two years ago Daniel went to work and our late daughter, Margot, crawled to the door crying because she didn’t want him to go. Last week Lucy did the same thing. I grabbed my camera because in that moment, everything in my head stopped and connected the two moments together…
This has happened a lot, recently. I think it’s because Lucy is finally nearing an age where we are ripe with memories of Margot and the similarities are beautiful. And now tragic. Lucy just started crawling and she shares the bizarre crawl of her sister. One leg out and one leg under in an awkward scoot. They share the same tone of whine for things. They share physical items and it’s fun to see things like the car that my Aunt Gyl got Penn when he was 4 months old, that Margot loved, that Lucy now pushes around with her one little outstretched finger.
Lucy’s stunning red hair is defiantly different and I love her for it…
Someone who was mourning the loss of their own child once asked me if it ever gets any better. I couldn’t answer them at the time. But now I would tell them that it doesn’t get any better. There is no meaning that can be embroidered on to such a tragedy that will make it better. (So please don’t insult a family by falsifying a silver lining or by offering enraging lines around the idea of “God’s Will.”)
But it does get different. Life becomes more functional and in the monotony of function, mental capacity is freed up for contemplation. And remembering.
With Lucy approaching her first birthday I am consumed with remembering.