A few years ago a person very close to my family passed, much too early. I wrote a poem after the service. It was the only way for me to deal with and express the feelings I was having.
On Friday I began to think how that poem, though written for a different person, and completely different situation, expresses again the feelings that I'm struggling with. I'm sure it is because my oldest daughter was born the same year as most of the young children that were slain at Sandy Hook elementary school. All weekend I looked at her and thought of the beautiful person that she is becoming and saw the light in her eyes and couldn't bear to think of the anguish it would cause me. I'm making the best out of this for myself. Each day I will strive to treat her in a way that if it was the last there would be no regrets; I know it should be that way already, but in the face of frustration I'm not always perfect. I've spent too much time already mulling over this weekends discoveries, making it too much a part of my thoughts. I need to try and move past thinking about it, and I'm so thankful that I have that ability, that this isn't going to be something I have to carry with me everyday for the rest of my life. But there are so many families this week without that choice. This poem reflects the pain that we see them carrying, and that as outsiders we can only understand a fraction of that.
The hollow thud; shattering.
Empty, I toss my load aside.
Aching with the finality,
crushed under it.
Unsure; I go.
Alone.
A memory.
That echo
