As I scroll down my Facebook feed at all the back to school pictures, I am left wanting and conflicted.

Maribella would have been starting 4th grade this week.  I look to all the photos of my friends kids, and much like the birthday photos, I am left with that ache, that insatiable hole within wondering what my little girl would be like, look like? Would her hair be long and curly?  Or would she have gotten sick of how hard curly hair was to take care of and want to chop it?  What would she have picked out to wear? Would she have started stashing the stiletto heels yet? You see, she was obsessed with fashion at four, and always commented on peoples shoes, especially heels. She would meet you, look you up and down frankly, and perhaps say, “I like your pretty shoes.”  Then, “do you like my pretty shoes?”

Would she love back to school shopping? Would she love office supply stores as much as me?  What kind of folders would she have picked out?  Would she still be pink heavy in her color choice?  Or a rainbow of colors?  I imagine she would have honed her style, but how.  I am left wanting knowledge that cannot be.  Instead, I live through others photos.

Would she like school?  Would it come easy?  Or hard?  What class would be her favorite? Would she be sassy?  A quiet kid?  Or a chatterbox? What after school activities would she want to do?  Would she still be playing soccer?  Would I have to fight her to do her homework? What kind of mad negotiation skills would she be employing to stay up later, like her sibling? How many teeth would she have lost and grown by now?

I am left exposed and raw with these questions.  They are there everyday and I have to quash them down to not get lost in these thoughts that will drive me mad.  I gaze upon the pictures on my wall as I write this, a child captured in moments, like every other, except stopping progress at just shy of five years of age.

She never got to go to kindergarten, she was beyond excited to get to go to the same school with her sister (now brother).  Raffi/now Jason, was so excited to take her to her classroom at the beginning of the day, and get her at the end of the day.  We found out, literally, the day before she died that she got into that school. She never got to have a birthday party with friends over (just family ones). She had just started pre-school the fall before and had made a friend group.  She asked everyday how many sleeps until my birthday, as she had big plans.  She was so excited to have all her new friends over for it. She never got to have a sleepover at a friends. She never lost her first tooth. She did not get to have her ears pierced, as that was her 5th birthday present.  She never got to take her tap and ballet class that she got shoes for for Christmas.

With each year that passes, another milestone comes and goes that I miss. You are left with questions that swirl in your brain like a tornado with its intensity, leaving the host exhausted, distracted, and on the edge of tears. This happens for every milestone, there are too many to name. But pretty much any one that a kid gets excited for, makes a craft for, makes a list for, wants to celebrate, you have a silence that is deafening.  You mourn for each of these milestones all over, the wound of grief re-opened, its raw and bottomless nature taking your feet out from under you, again.  I say again, because at this point, you cannot count the cuts and bruises from the fallout from this, there are so many.

Yet, I still have this amazing child who is here, and alive. It makes my brain torn as I go from this grief to the present. The long list of I don’t get to with Maribella, to now, Jason saying, mom I need. I am left with a guilt as I struggle to keep up and be excited for the now with Jason, while this albatross of grief for Bells weighs at me, the subconscious threatening the conscious, that battle that leaves me walking in circles saying, can you say that again please, I did not catch it the first time you said it. There is this constant state of bittersweet that I live in, trying to be present with him, and actually succeeding, while he hits his own milestones. And. Always, missing my Bells.

This does not mean I do not want to see and celebrate your children’s milestones, or hear about them. I know people sometimes hesitate, knowing it is hard for me. I look forward to celebrating yours, but understand if a tear pops up, or a far away look comes across my eyes, or if I have to go to the bathroom all of a sudden.  It’s complicated. That is the sum of it. The day Jesse took my beautiful girl from me, is the day my heart split, a part of my soul ripped from my being, leaving me to wander with an emptiness never to be filled. I have learned to navigate, and even thrive in some aspects, but that is always there. So I thank you for your patience as always these milestones come and go, re-opening the pandora’s box that contains Bellas grief, allowing it to peek up and say, here I am, and me, as always, saying, dear girl, I just can’t. The grief for you is too much, I just love and miss you too too much.

First day of pre-school September 2013