Two months ago today you died. Two months ago tomorrow you were born. These are facts I can never quite reconcile.

All day long there’s been a thrumming undercurrent. Two months. Two months. Its been so little time, but it feels like a hundred years ago. It feels like you never were. It feels like you still are. I feel outside myself.

I almost never admit how hard every minute is. Even to myself. I’m often tired, and life itself almost takes more effort than I’m able to put out. But I keep doing it. The house doesn’t get too disasterous. I show up clean and bright and smiling every day at work. I laugh at movies with your daddy. I look fine on the surface. Underneath it there’s darkness and strain and I can’t quite reach it–nor can I quite ignore it.

Two months. How can it have been so very recently that I held you? How can you have been gone this long?

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