Today is the 12th.  That means it’s been 9 months since we learned Will died.  Huh, 9 months – longer than Will ever lived in me.  As long as he was supposed to live in me before he was born a red and screaming boy.

I struggle to find words today.

I have tuned out the introspection of grief with the pounding racket that is my life:

Sam and his joyous singing, incessant questioning, and love of popping bubble-wrap.

Abby and her fussy gums and musical giggles.

Mark and his talent to plunk out the chords to just about any song he hears.

Work.

frivolous radio music.

Dumb television.

The computer.

The dog, who needs a good grooming and his shots updated.

The roof that needs repaired.

Family.  Friends.  Food.  Grocery Shopping.  Photography.  Blogging.  Garage Sales.

It is a good life.  A great life.  A life I wasn’t sure I would have when infertility crammed into our lives the way a swollen river becomes dammed with debris. 

And yet, 9 months has taught me this:

There will never be enough laughter or music or busyness or anything that will ever completely drown out the silence that a child’s absence leaves in one’s life.

I have much happiness.

But if I get still enough.  And quiet enough.  And alone enough.  I feel the emptiness suck me back as it was 9 months ago when I watched in disbelief as the ultrasound screen showed Will’s still little heart.

I orbit grief like the earth to the sun.  Now is my time to be nearer to the pain.  It comes around and feels so surprisingly fresh.  I don’t know that I will ever get used to that aspect of grief…the fact that it can feel so real and new again.

Anyway, I miss my William today.

I miss him every day.  But today, I miss him with the unprotected heart of new loss.  I know this will pass, this closeness to the sun.  I’m sure it is necessary, even, to pull out the ear plugs of life and listen to my heart every now and then.

And my heart says this…

Will, your mommy misses you so, so much…and loves you to the sun and back.