Thursday, Sept. 29, 2005 | 11:38 p.m.



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Still More Coolness

Ache

I don't write about her as often as I used to, but I think about her every day. A candle burns next to my computer downstairs with her picture propped up in front of it. At night I lay in bed and memories wash over me, regrets over things unsaid, actions not taken, but mostly I just miss her. I say her name often; she is part of our conversation on any given day. Frequently I see something (like last night's viewing of The Corpse Bride) and I feel the sting of tears at missing the opportunity to meet her eyes in silent acknowledgment of a joke or a cool visual. Sometimes I just lie here and ache, thinking of the curve of her cheek, the warmth of her skin, the way she smelled. I even miss the hospital, the shared sense of camaraderie, of eye-rolling at new medical staff and the chance to lay in bed with her at least once and hold her.

Sometimes I project thoughts to her. I have never spoken out loud, not really. But some nights I lay there, hand outstretched, praying hard that I'll feel something, anything like her little hand on mine. Once or twice I imagined I felt something, but it wasn't very solid and could have simply been the tingling in my hand as it dangled over the edge of the bed. She comes in dreams sometimes. The last one had her turning up in a very out-of-context way, making sure she had my attention and saying, "I love you," before she disappeared. Her face was changing and she seemed to be struggling to hold the image I know to be her. She wanted to make sure I recognized her, that I knew she loved me. My waking mind yearns, though, to have its own sense of her, to hear her, to feel her.

I feel what it means to have time pass without her, to realize what it means to have someone for ten and a half years and only ten and a half years. Her sister will turn ten in December. By next year at this time, she will have outlived her sister. I don't know how I feel about that exactly. I know it is unsettling. And I know that I fiercely wish I could know her at eleven, at twelve, at twenty-five. That's what I planned, you know, when she was diagnosed. I thought we'd at least make it to twenty-five.

I like to think -- to say -- that I'm coping very well with her death. In the dark of the night, I'm not as sure that is true. I think I'm just a good liar, a good actress, so good that I even believe that I am okay. My life goes on, yes. There are amazing moments, yes. I want to keep living, yes. But the bone deep ache of her absence -- that is not fading. I don't think it ever will. I will continue to grow around it, but it will never be erased, never be mended. I will wake up every day and know that I have three beautiful daughters, but that I only get to see two of them, hug two of them. I don't know if I ever really knew what ache was before.

Jasmine. I miss you so.

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Recent Entries ...
Go Here - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2006
Short, But Sad Good-bye - Sunday, Oct. 16, 2005
Jasmine's Story ... Our Story - Friday, Sept. 30, 2005
Ache - Thursday, Sept. 29, 2005
Twists & Turns - Tuesday, Sept. 27, 2005

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