The Beacon: 2024 05/12

Today, as I sit by my window, the warm spring sunlight streams in, and I breathe in the fresh scent of grass and blooming flowers. Spring usually brings a sense of new beginnings; even now, the longer days make me feel more alive. However, my heart feels heavy and slow to embrace the light, weighed down by a sadness that has lingered for two long years.

In the beginning, when my grief was new, spring felt almost cruel. Its promise of renewal seemed to mock my pain. Watching the hummingbirds and butterflies in my garden made me miss my daughter's voice even more. The smell of flowers, which should have been delightful, reminded me of death. Every new leaf and bloom served as a reminder that time keeps moving forward, even though she is no longer here.

Learning to cope with this deep sadness while appreciating life's beauty has been challenging. I miss my daughter terribly, the way our family used to be, and who I was before experiencing this unimaginable loss.

I enjoy watching the bright red cardinals return to sing in the early morning sun. I smile when I see a bold squirrel dash to the bird feeders, carefully avoiding our sleeping dogs. I watch the sun trace its path across the sky from morning until evening.

I've come to understand that grief is not something you can simply remove like an old jacket. Instead, I find myself dealing with it numerous times throughout the day. I wish I had cherished earlier Springs more, but now I realize how precious and short life truly is. Sometimes, though, happy memories of days filled with laughter and playdates with Texa come to mind, and I feel reassured that I did the best I could with what I knew then.

It's hard to balance remembering the past and getting through the day. But today, I'm allowing myself to reflect on those memories and feel all the emotions that come with them. As I go to sleep tonight, I'll think of Texa and feel her close in my heart, finding comfort in the love that remains.

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