So now the pain begins.  It comes in sudden, urgent pulses.  It is akin, I would imagine, to heroin withdrawl, a tugging in the veins that takes your breath away.

I find myself fixated with the things that I use in my house.  When I started using the bottle of bottle of shampoo in my bathroom Lula was alive.  The hands I used to wash my hair I used to hold my baby.  When I use up this bottle of shampoo somehow I will be losing a tenuous connection between the time that Lula was alive and the time now that she is gone.  Everything that existed when she was here is a thread to her that I am scared to sever.  I am scared to use up the mustard.  I held the box of baby oatmeal to my forehead for minutes, thinking of her daily ritual of feeding therapy with oatmeal and cinnamon. I am trying to let go of all of the reminders around the house because they ricochet like a slingshot whenever I touch them.

One of my closest friends passed away suddenly several years ago.  At the time I remember wondering how her mom would ever survive it.  Her mom sent me a letter this week that, among many wrenching insights, said this:

"When the life we wanted gets ripped away from us we have to come to terms with the irrefutable fact that everything we love is impermanent."

I am trying my hardest not to anchor my memory of her in things because their permanence is exactly what separates them from her essential spirit.  I am trying.

Half eaten lollipop from Lula's feeding therapy.  For now it stays.