You Are Here

I have a little arrow sticker in my planner that says "You are Here".  I move around my month so I can tell at a glance just where I am.  Yesterday, naturally, it was on the fifth of July.  I took a good look at it when I opened up my pages, and thought, well, isn't that the truth?

It had come upon me, whether I wanted it or not.

I took a slight head in the sand approach to the day, writing only two things on my to do list:  post a picture of Cory and breathe, all day long.

To pass the time, I slept.  Dr. Z is quite right, you know- if you look at pictures of someone right before sleep, he or she will often show up in your dreams.

My last thought before burrowing back into my pillow as soon as I realized it was morning was remembering the first time I heard Cory laugh.  We were at the little house on Broadway.  I had pair of those tiny nail clippers, and set about trimming her nails.  I'm not sure quite why it struck her fancy so, but each time the clippers made the little "click" sound, she let loose the most satisfying baby belly laugh in all existence.  I was awed.  Nothing so magical had ever happened to me in all of my nineteen years.  I was awestruck, indeed, and  I was also alone in the house, unable to share my joy with someone.

  As with many of my life experiences, I felt the immediate, pressing need to share it with my mother.  I dialed her up with hands shaking in excitement, hoping Cory would do it again so Mom could hear it over the phone.  She did, of course, and Mom was nearly as delighted as I had been, despite having had four daughters who performed this little miracle for her enjoyment far before Cory came to be.

I fell asleep to this memory and then had the dream.  I had the dream I wish always came when I will it, but doesn't...the dream I wish I could just put on a loop and take into a deep, long coma with me.  I don't know if every parent who's lost a child has this dream, but I'd be curious to know.  It goes like this:

It was all a mistake!  

Cory survived the accident, and turned out just fine!  She was back home, seemingly puzzled at all the fuss and fanfare.  I was so filled with joy to see her, I probably could have flown if I had simply put forth the effort.  

She was wearing a pink sundress, all her limbs whole and straight.  Her face was simply aglow with her smile, radiant, and unmarred by cuts or bruises.  I looked her over, inventorying every last bit of her, unable to believe my eyes.  How could this be true?  Somehow, it was, and I kept touching her to confirm it to myself. 

 She soon tired of all the poking and prodding, and asked me outright, "Woman, what do I have to do to prove to you I'm okay?  Carry you across the room?!"  I laughed the couple of inches down into her face, and squealed in protest as she did just that, hefting me up onto her hip as if I was the world's largest and laziest toddler.  We nearly fell over, laughing.  

All was as it had been.  Amen.

That's where I want to be, long to be.  But as Acceptance often points out to me, that is not where I am.  I am here, without her, but with the magical sound of her first laugh in my ears.  It doesn't seem like enough, but it is more than some people get.

I'll take it.