The day after

All of my words and energy feels used up in one moment. Gone. Then, renewed, I remember. I become a raw nerve ending--a ball of frenetic energy.

Pace the floor.
Send flowers.
Make food.
Hold my baby.
Cry.
Light a candle.
Count to ten.
Write a list.
Do addition.
Look at the blog again.
Check FB.
Get some water.
Cry.
Ask the same questions over and over.
Close my eyes.
Open them.
Check her blog.

Nothing will erase the hours since I heard. I will never make sense of our losses. I will wrap my daughter's death in a mythology that appeases me, but I will never make sense of it logically or emotionally.

:::

Everyone seems tongue-tied right now.

Afraid to say the wrong thing. Afraid to say anything. In some ways, I feel like what the rest of my world must have felt when Lucy died. Inadequate. Privileged. Helpless. My instinct is to do. I can't even call anyone to say, "Let's organize some casseroles, people." I have learned some valuable things since Lucia died, not least of which is to sit and listen and weep and be. But even that seems impossible right now. Impossible.

:::

I have had this constant refrain. Three. Three. My utter disbelief is shocking to me. Am I so desperate to find meaning in the world that I cannot process something so cruel, so chaotic, so random? In some ways, this is how I felt after Lucy died, like my entire understanding of the universe has been shattered. I felt small and vulnerable. I shook and became afraid. It makes me question all the reality I know. It makes me weigh logic and emotions in such a detached way that I have chilled my own core. I want a moment of clarity right now. A peek into a bigger picture. Something, anything, but this fucking abyss.