Vero stirs in my arms, rubbing her eyes with her chubby hands.
I sometimes forget how small she is until her hand disappears as mine swallows hers whole. When her soft, almost blonde eyelashes kiss her tiny, freckle-dusted cheeks, and when her bright green eyes look at me like I hung the moon. Because in her eyes, I did.
“Hi, baby,” I whisper as she smiles. A touchless hug. A warm pillow and a hushed ‘everything will be alright.
I wonder sometimes if whoever let Nick die knew, after he was gone, taking half my life with him, I was going to need a reminder it would be okay. That life goes on, that I still have reasons to fight, to stay, so they gave me her.
Years and years of trying, and so much hope lost. Every month, year after year, and when the wish finally came true, another one was lost.
I know I didn’t trade him for her. I know that. But sometimes, I wonder who needs whom more.
“Mama,” she whispers in her groggy voice. I still catch my breath when I hear it. After two years of speech therapy, hearing her say anything—especially the title I wear with the most pride—is everything.
“Are you ready to visit Daddy?” Her eyes search the space, but she doesn’t understand who Daddy is. She knows the cold stone half-buried in the ground is what we call Daddy. The pictures on the wall at home, the videos we watch on Sundays, or the ones I watch silently in my room when I miss him are who we call Daddy.
She doesn’t know any better, or at least, I hope she doesn’t. All I want her to know is that both of us loved her wholeheartedly, even though she can’t see him. Even though she never met him.
She doesseeBella, the smile on her face, brighter than the moonlight over the graves. She wiggles herself free from my arms and runs until she lands in her older sister’s arms.
Bella scoops her sister into her lap, and while she brushes Vero’s copper hair, her mouth moves in a conversation between the three of them.
I give them distance. Who am I to be privy to the relationship two girls have with their father who died a hero?
With their father, who was such a fundamental part of their lives.
With a father this whole town misses every single day.
Who I miss every day.
“We did good,” I whisper into the air, the June breeze carrying my words. A small leaf falls on top of his grave, followed by a little cardinal flying behind them.
I see you.
I let out a breath. I don’t need to voice the words for me to know he knows.
I miss you. It was too soon. How am I supposed to do this? Who am I without you?
How does one live without the love that shaped them? The love that made them the adult they are today? I grew up next to him, my life intertwining with his—my heart and soul lived in him.
One day at a time. My mom’s words echo in my head at the mere thought. You don’t quit living. You don’t quit, period.
You cry, you miss, you suffer, you scream in anger, and then you pick yourself back up forthem.
For you.
But twice a year, I let myself miss him more. I let my grief drown me, and I don’t pretend I’m okay.
Except this year, one of those days came, and I didn’t even notice, and that almost hits twice as hard. Something about being so busy at work and then seeing how sad that guy looked. For once, I didn’t feel like the one carrying all the sadness and guilt.
He came in looking defeated, as if life had given him an answer he wasn’t expecting. I felt a gnawing in my stomach that screamed to help him feel better. I was so lost in figuring out why those whiskey eyes looked like they were drowning in a pool of hurt, which is wild to even think about, since I have no clue what they look like regularly. I don’t even know his name.
I shake my head and the lie with it—the one where I don’t know what those feelings were,grief.
It felt good being so busy and seeing my little business thrive.
It felt so good to put a smile on someone’s face and, for a second, allow him to forget whatever brought him into the shop today.
I didn’t forget you.
