While sobbing, I clean and organize my home to prepare it for sale. This house was bought as a place for her to grow up; staying seems impossible.
Making plans for my future feels like betraying her memory.
Here are some of the unexpected things I’ve done since I lost my baby six days ago:
+ Count the number of people who signed her memorial book at the funeral home to determine if I provided her with a large enough community of people who loved her
+ Rehang the photos in her bedroom that I took down to display during her memorial, even though I’m now preparing the house for sale
+ Count the number of people who donated to the causes I asked people to give to in her name, instead of sending us flowers or food, to determine if people are honoring her memory
+ Sign and date all of the paintings we painted two days before she passed because we will no longer be adding embellishments to them
+ Check the number of views the unlisted YouTube video clip from her memorial got to determine if other people are missing her too (they are)
+ Google the number of years Hitler lived, 56. That is seven times as long as my child did. Does that mean that the world is seven times worse than I thought it was before I googled how long Hitler lived?
Back to preparing the house for sale...
