This Year

What a weird holiday season. Shopping for gifts my kids will actually use, looking around at the chaos in the playroom, cursing under my breath and chastising myself for having so much stuff already and knowing I’ll be bringing more in. Updating the list as I added items to my cart yesterday and making sure the kids have the same amount of presents.

From my bed this morning hearing them sorting the gifts that were freshly placed last night, knowing they’re doing their own tally to make sure it’s all even and fair.

I also have been shopping for urns. Looking for the perfect ceramic container for Anni’s ashes. Pages and pages of options in the catalog from the morgue, and endless websites and none of them feels like Anni, and this is the worst type of shopping and also feels sacred.

I found a woman on Etsy who makes custom urns, a flower on top. A yellow rose for Annika Rose. What size? How odd to answer that question. I know what size she was when she sat on my lap, golden hair wildly unkempt, escaping her ponytail. I know the weight of her body leaning against mine, her hands in her mouth. I know how I need to move to pick her up and carry her. The last time I carried her was into the funeral home. I know the urn size I need because I asked the mortician and it’s measured in cubic inches, and now I know what size Anni is in cups.

I have spent years talking about hard things with friends and family, doctors and hospice workers. I have talked to my other children about surgeries for their sister and tried my damndest to be there for their emotional needs while managing my own desperation and grief. They look at my face intently when I’m talking about Anni to see if tears have sprung to my eyes, almost as if looking for permission to display their own sadness. Sometimes they cry with me, but most of the time, they quietly set aside whatever they're doing and just sit with me. Silently. Heads on my shoulders, arms around me, not saying. a word and I know that they are learning the sacred skill of presence.

This is the first year of buying presents for two instead of three. The first year of feeling over and over again like I’m forgetting to do something, and understanding that I haven’t forgotten anything, it’s just not needed anymore. The first year of not buying something Anni wouldn’t use but wanting to include her nevertheless. Wanting desperately to honor her this season and bring her presence to our celebrations, especially with Luke and Emma, and not knowing how to do that, and missing her terribly.

I’m tempted to wrap up this post and place a positive bow on top. But I can’t. Because this isn’t the end of the story. It’s not something that can easily be folded up and put away. It’s not something that is brought out for special occasions. The grief is ever-present and even though I know that the sharp edges will wear down as I become more used to this big change, this year the moments of awareness of her absence howl in my chest.