Dear Maria

Dear Maria,

I came across photos of the day you died.

We were separated by a country.

All I remember is receiving the call at work. I missed the first two attempts to reach me because I was in a meeting. It still feels hard to think about. About being in a work meeting during your last breath.

The pictures reminded me of the rest.

I took the girls to the park that afternoon.

They played and swung on the swings. They were one and three.

As a mother, so much of grief was about containment. Protecting everyone around me from it, or from the worst of it. Keeping all the pain inside while still trying to let the love flow freely and let normal reign.

For my girls, I let as little as possible change. We went to the park, we sang songs, we played, we went grocery shopping, we had yoghurt for breakfast at the same time, sitting in the same chairs - like we always did. Life was mundanely normal.

On the outside. On my photo reel. In my interactions with others.

On the inside, I couldn’t distinguish up from down.

Despite my best efforts, my attempts were imperfect. Tears flowed at bed time, singing lullabies. I’m sure I didn’t hear everything, everyone said. My patience was probably short.

I was there but not always there. The containment kept the knives of grief pointed inward which meant I protected everyone else from the worst of the pain but started starving them of me. It wasn’t without consequences. Consequences that I’m still reconciling years later.

But I protected them from the worst. I did the best I could with what I knew then.

All my love,

Jess