I wrote this to a friend a few days ago, and it pretty well sums it up:
"Every time I think I am getting something like perspective regarding Roxy's death, summer comes and the whole god damn thing drops right onto my heart like a piano and fucking smashes it."
The heat is such a visceral call-back to Roxy's death. It was so terribly, oppressively hot. If Hell is this hot, I hope it's at least not quite as humid. I found my mind wandering back three years ago to where I was on this EXACT day, less than 2 weeks from Terra's scheduled C-section... Waiting for Roxy to arrive. A girl!!! What would THAT be like? Scrambling to get things finished, wrapping up loose musical ends, cataloguing and organizing at work in preparation for my absence... feeling hopeful. Jesus, that was, I suppose, the last time I truly felt that way: "hopeful." Since Roxy died, I don't dare "hope" - I "wait and see." That's the best I can do. I guess I am always braced for the worst. No one's death could surprise me, I don't think. A few nights ago, I was sprinting through my house at 4am, checking that doors were locked, checking that kids were breathing, and checking that there were no murderers or kidnappers hiding in closets. Yes, I am that kind of crazy some nights.
My friend Sandi, who lost her beautiful daughter Riley almost a year to the day after we lost Roxy, sent Terra and I an email today and it just had "Roxy" as the subject line - (This post is going to jump around isn't it?) - just seeing her name made me feel SO grateful... anyway, it occurred to me how truly wonderful it is whenever someone says or writes her name to me... I think people avoid it sometimes, as if hearing it could remind me that our first daughter died. As if that realization ever leaves. In every single room I walk into, there is someone missing. Every single room.
Roxy Jean, I remember when the heart of summer stopped beating. I hope it didn't hurt.