I walked to a familiar place and she was there. Ten years old, not a care in the world. Happy, bubbly, effervescent. I tried to keep from hugging her every second because I knew what she did not: I knew her existence was impossible. Even asleep I knew. It could never last long enough. But I didn’t want to act like I knew for fear something would change.
She glided – her full, long hair bouncing as we walked. We talked about everything and nothing. She held my hand innocently – that little hand threading itself into mine. I felt a stillness and a stirring love, immutable passion toward this thing that was and is no more. This family, forever changed. Still living, breathing, loving… but different than before. My restless soul felt peace.
Friends came to us and marveled because they knew what she did not. And I asked, “Do you see her? Am I crazy?”
They affirmed her presence and we strolled on. Blissfully and mercifully we strolled on.
And then, she left. As quickly as she came, she is gone and I am awake immediately. Morning light peeks around black curtains facing east. I roll onto my back and blink away tears because she is gone. Gone.
The distance between her visits has been too long. I lay awake, cursing the cruel ceiling that won’t let my mind drift back to sleep. It can’t rest now. It is focused – those bygone days of completeness… that little hand threading itself into mine. Long minutes pass. Cursing rolls to acceptance of what cannot be changed and the dream that will not be resurrected. I am keenly aware that the pillow is wet, past damp, it is wet. Are the tears rolling down my face of longing? Or are they tears of happiness? Because for a moment, for just a brief moment I felt it all! The hope… the love… the completeness… the sadness of loss.
“I love being here with them, but I hate being here without her.”
Without her is the way we now live. When loss digs its heals into one’s soul, life becomes a struggle to find stasis. There is a tenuous gap between happiness and sadness. The two are intertwined. Happiness is a possibility, sadness inevitable and thus there exists a fight for the zero point while being pulled at both ends – the little flag on a tug-of-war rope. Most grievers would say that happiness is the underdog. It never wins for long.
I am a griever. Yet I am a dreamer, too. I dream, and she is there. And I am happy for a moment. Eventually I must wake up and pull the rope against the big brute of sadness for my share of happiness – however small the portion. I will pull. I will smile. I will win… at times. I will also lose. But until my dying day I will pull. For even a fleeting victory is worth the struggle.
24 thoughts on “The Tenuous Gap”
So sorry for your loss.I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child. I know it would be devastating for me. I’m sending prayers your way and hope the memories of your little girl with sustain you. ((Hugs))
Thank you, Lisa.
I pray to the One who promised to wipe every tear that He brings you His comfort and shelter your broken heart until you meet your beautiful daughter again.
Thank you for your prayers.
No words seem appropriate.
Thanks for sharing.
and you will always have those glimpses of her and her legacy to you is that she will never truly leave your heart and soul. see these moments as a gift, even though they may leave you feeling sad, there is also a glimmer of happiness in them.
I love the gift of dreams. I wish I could have them every night.
Mark what a beautiful dream. I wish it was real life. Your writing makes me feel like I was there, watching the two of you walk. Thanks for sharing.
Me too. It really was beautiful.
I can’t hit “like” because I don’t – but I love you for how you love. ((hugs))
My thoughts echo Paul’s.
I love you too, Paul. And the dreams are worth the price of waking up.
You really have a way with words. Beautifully said.
Thank you, Kyle.
I’m so glad you have these dreams about her. The few times I have dreamed, Jonathan is still sick. I wish, just once, I could see him as he was before the monster. May your “visits ” continue and bring you some peace.
Yes, I love the dreams. In my head, there is health and happiness. I hope you get a visit from a well Jonathan soon.
Thank you Mark for sharing Kylie, helping others grieving with your beautiful, meaningful words! No one comprehends all the is behind grief, loss of your child unless you have lost, that very gift of life. Your words teach others, to watch what they say, that grief lasts forever, that life changes forever with the loss of a child! No family is ever the same
That is true. No family is the same. Thank you, Margy.
Yours is truly an amazing spirit, Mark Myers.
I always feel like an idiot for complaining about my life whenever I visit here.
I wish my friend Ron could have seen just how precious the life he threw away truly is.
Kylie had no say in her passing but Ron did.
It’s all such a tragic shame.
I have had a real dose of perspective, but don’t intend to make you feel bad. I’m sorry for your loss – it is painful for those left behind regardless of the circumstances. Keep Hooking (although that sounds rather terrible)
What a beautiful dream. My husband cannot even see Bianka’s face as he is not a visual person and had no dreams of her at all. It is killing him. I had few dreams of her, all good, and yes that moment of waking up and realizing it was all a dream is crushing. But you would do anything for more dreams, right?
I would do anything. I’m sorry about that for Klaudio. I hope he has one soon.