Do You See?

So...

here's the thing.  A visual person, a visual learner, looks for symbols and connections constantly.  If you write or draw or paint...double that.  Someone who thinks in metaphors doesn't see a slab of concrete for its practicality and look forward to the the beauty that will rest upon it.  I wholeheartedly appreciate the hard work that my brothers-in-law put forth in setting the foundation for my daughters monument.  I not only am indebted to their labor and the materials, but can never repay the fact that people who knew and loved Cory did the digging and the pouring.

While a stranger may have whistled a cheerful tune while performing a mundane chore on auto-pilot, I know in my heart that Bud and Dave, whether they voiced it to each other or not as they worked, thought of my girl.  Her face came up in their minds.  And since they have both been steady, positive male role models in her life since the day she was born, they had many, many memories to draw upon.

That means something to me.  In the same way that a meal can taste better simply because it is made for you by someone who only wishes to bring you joy, I know that Cory's final resting place was made better by men who loved her...who watched her grow.  They saw her as a child exploring the world and playing with their own children, her very first friends; they saw her gawky years, all braces and skinny legs; they witnessed her struggles with her mental health and prayed for her; they saw her grow into a beautiful young woman whose smile lit up the room.  They have laughed at things she has said, and they have made her laugh, many, many times.  No matter what negative feelings this monument business stirs in me, I will remain forever grateful for that.

So this foundation.  I think going out to see it meant I am getting stronger.  A year ago, I would've avoided it like the plague.  So flying high on the heady relief of a couple good weeks of feeling that life might actually be worth living, I went out there.  I didn't have to.  I chose to.  And yes, it broke me down.  I didn't see concrete; I saw a barrier.  I'm so brand spanky new to this whole "carrying her in my heart" business.  I still haven't figured it completely out.

This whole task of finding a way to continue a relationship with your dead child is hard enough.  You have all this love you want to give, and all these small observations about the world that you want to share in the same way you always have.  When hugs and conversations are no longer on the table, you have to find other ways.  I'm here to tell you it sucks ass.  And it never seems to be enough.  How can you leave all those feelings on the ground with some fresh cut flowers and just walk away?  How do you know she heard you?  What does she have to say in response?  What if, no matter how closely you watch for signs or how carefully you listen, the wind is still and you hear nothing?

That's what I've been struggling with.  So then, imagine walking up and seeing something so impenetrable as concrete.  Barrier:  "a circumstance or obstacle that keeps people or things apart, or prevents communication or progress".

Do you see?  Can you put yourself in my shoes and stand there, regarding the place where she rests (not necessarily thinking of her whole and well, because if you're a visual thinker like me, you know there is a broken skull, and broken bones that lie below in that pretty pink box)?
 Can you feel the fear that tightened your scalp, and got your adrenaline pumping in a most unpleasant way?

I am afraid.