It’s Toddler Thursday—that blessed day when all
kids’ clothes are half price. I intend to load up the cart and my son will be
set for the long winter ahead.
I hear the bells above the door jingle. Someone
has entered. My spine tingles.
I pluck a pair of jeans off the rack. Oooh,
perfect. This pair has those stretchy little elastic tabs for sizing. My son’s
pants are always too big around his little waist. I drape them over the cart
handle.
I move along and my fingers linger briefly on a
pair of jeans with pink fringe decorating the bottoms. Girls’ clothes are always
so much cuter than boys. And in that instant, I feel him come up behind me.
Not
today. I have so many things to do. Please go away.
I continue on to the next rack, my body feeling
too heavy to hold up.
Remember Toddler Thursday?
I press my eyes closed. He’s here. Of course I remember. I’ll always remember.
I busy myself with my search. My fingertips
graze an embroidered flower on the back pocket of a pair of girls’ jeans. I
never did understand why they mixed the boys and girls clothes together in this
store.
He laughs at my frustration—a throaty chortle—then
moves in so close that I can feel him breathing on my neck. But there’s no
fear. I know him too well to be afraid of him anymore. We spent endless days,
sometimes weeks, together in the beginning without so much as a break. He even
infiltrated my dreams.
I turn around to face him. What are you doing here, Grief? It’s just an ordinary day.
He smirks, knowing I know better than that. Ordinary
days are my favorite days. You know I like to arrive when I’m least expected.
It’s true. He rarely shows up on the days when
I’m prepared for him—birthdays, heaven days and holidays. I move on to the rack
of long-sleeve shirts, and he moves along with me like a pesky shadow. He’s
practically touching my arm as he peers over my shoulder.
I like that one. He
points to a hot pink shirt with a peace sign and daisies decorating the front.
Me too.
I would have gotten that for her.
And you probably would have had a matching shirt
of your own. Maybe you’d call yourself twins and she’d giggle, hug you and say,
‘I love you mommy’.
I exhale sharply and shake my head. He knows me
so well.
Can you believe she would have been five this
year?
Tears prick my eyelids, but they don’t fall.
Instead I think about the school clothes I would have bought for her—most
likely in this store on a Toddler Thursday. An ordinary day. During her four
months with us she wore many of the clothes I bought for her; others remain in
a pink bin with the tags still attached.
You look sad. Does it bother you that I’m here? He cranes his neck so he can see my face.
I shake my head. No, it was harder in the
beginning, but now I’m sort of used to you … of course, I could do without these
random visits.
He laughs and I move along the rack, selecting
an orange and brown striped shirt. I don’t attempt to ignore Grief anymore.
That makes him feisty and he sticks around even longer, poking and prodding
until he gets my attention.
I stop and turn to face him. Actually, sometimes I like it when you come.
The pain feels raw again and it feels like proof that she was really here. That
she lived.
He looks away.
I turn back to the rack and I can feel his eyes
on me. I think I’ve learned how to deal
with you. My friends have helped me. And the support group. And God.
He huffs. Disbelief. Maybe he thought we’d spend
every day together. Not too long ago, that’s the way it was. Just his presence
had me reeling and I’d cry each snap of his fingers.
But over time, that changed.
Nothing has changed. Your baby still died. His
tone was sharp. A last ditch effort to break me.
But the weight of loss, and the way I’d come to
bend to Grief’s unexpected visits, gave me a strength I never could have found
otherwise.
This is
a lifelong journey and you’ll be with me forever … It doesn’t have to be a bad
thing. We can learn how to live with each other.
I wait for a smart remark, but he’s quiet. I
pick up a tan shirt with a dinosaur on the front. Oh, he’ll love this!
I head for the checkout and Grief follows, a few
steps behind me now.
“Hi there,” I say to the clerk behind the
counter. “How are you today?”
Grief gives a little grunt then walks toward the
door. He gets ornery when he’s not at the center of my attention. Out of the
corner of my eye I see him raise his hand and give a little wave.
See ya soon kiddo. Take care.
I turn quickly to look at him—was that
compassion in his voice? But it’s too late, he’s already outside on the
sidewalk, strolling away—at least for today.
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