Five Years

Five years. Half a decade. Long enough that all my happy memories of you are fuzzy and sometimes for just a moment, I start to question if they are real. Short enough that if I didn’t have the horrible memories of "that" day, I wouldn’t be able to comprehend that you are really gone. Long enough that I can only imagine what you, at almost seven, would feel like in my arms now. Short enough
that my brain and body still respond with panic to memories of the way you felt when I held you in my arms for the last time. Long enough that your sister is now just the right age for the two of you to really play (and fight) with each other. Short enough that I sometimes fantasize about what that would have been like. Long enough that within our circle of family and friends there are many people that never got to know you. Short enough that our circle of family and friends still includes many people that were willing to be with us, to feel awkward and uncomfortable for the sake of being real friends. Long enough that my pain is no longer excruciatingly fresh and raw. Short enough that there are still waves of grief that literally take my breath away. Long enough that your sister knows she has a brother and she asks to play with you. Short enough that she doesn’t understand why she can’t and that our family will always be different from most others. Long enough that I have more photographs of her than of you. Short enough that I still feel betrayed and cheated when I think about how there will never, not ever be a photograph of the four of us together. Long enough to put me closer to you in the future. Short enough that I still have lots of active mothering to do. Long enough that I have experienced many “firsts” without you. Short enough that I expect many more. Five years. Half a decade. Long enough to feel like a lifetime. Short enough to feel like yesterday.