The longing to talk about Maeve is still on the tip of my tongue, and yet I am relegated to talk about the past and never the future.
We dream about what might be in the Heavens above - whether Maeve is now a big girl, or still a tiny baby trooping around the skies with her Reed and Barton silver cup. We'll only know the truth once we make it there ourselves.
I am still hurting.
I am reminded by songs and pretty clouds and pictures and crying babies.
Maeve's face is starting to look a bit blurry in my memory - I instantly remember her cherubic smile and chubby tummy, but I have a hard time remembering on my own how all her features went together. It comes back to my synapses instantly when I look at one of the many pictures I have in my office or at home.
Even as an aunt, I sometimes struggle with the most wicked depression - the kind that I sometimes think would be helped by a visit to a doctor and a little pill - but I don't want the emotion to go away. I still want to feel the raw heartache left behind by that precious, little girl.
I am far more reclusive.
I've built a comfortable, little circle of friends with whom I feel comfortable enough to let myself go and be happy or complacent or wistful.
Otherwise, I don't step out the circle much.
Otherwise, I don't call too many other people.
Depression can be rough, and it's hard to play Let's Pretend and make-believe and all the other junk that goes with keeping up appearances.
Some friends think I should be "all better" by now and are slow to offer a shoulder to cry on. Unfortunately the loss of a child doesn't heal as quickly as a skinned knee.
Other friends have been great ~ they've called me and checked up on me and invited me out for breakfast or walks or other outings. My true friends have firmly encouraged me to stop living like a hermit - insisting I need to step outside and see the sunshine and smell the breeze and appreciate that I am still alive.
And I agree.
It's just real damn hard sometimes.