Broken Wings

We grapple for reasons to be glad ...eek the joy out of the crevices of our hearts ...us, parent's missing and searching for their children.  Yes, we grapple with gratitude.  Afterall, the reality is we now live with a darkness we cannot shake.  Sure the sun streams in, illuminating our days.  Of course we laugh, appreciate a joke, a moment of surprise.  Pausing, we appreciate the eyes of a child as it wonders and wanders after the bumblebee, the butterfly.  No, we do not sit long-faced, dabbing our tears.  We live ...we are surviving as the tears turn inward flowing through our veins, always returning to our heart to gather oxygen,  Pouring from our eyes less and less, people are relieved, glad for the reprieve from our sorrow.  Smiles adorn our mouths, our eyes.
We are camouflaged.  Who would know, unless you knew.  Our lives are changed ...for all time.  It is not a badge we wear, not an excuse to opt out, gain a free pass ...it simply is, and will always be.
From outside, friends, family, our own surviving children champion us, sometimes annoyed and frustrated that we don't seem 'happier'.  "It is a choice," they say.  And they are right ...but like the bird with a wounded wing, we may want to fly, ever higher, touching the sky where our child now lives, soaring through the clouds, feeling the wind on our face. But try as we might ...our wounded wing, it just does not work ...we simply cannot fly.  It is not a choice ...we are grounded from take off.  And so ...we learn to fly differently, without lift, we see the things around us we wouldn't notice unless wounded.
We count the heads on pillows at night, knowing one is empty ...we force ourselves to be glad for the time when the count was higher, when our child slumbered, breathing ...living ...sleeping warm and so close to us.  Simple really, that head count parents take, at night, bedtime.  We count the missing too ...Imagine.
And so we fight for the reasons to be glad, the small details of our lives.  We find the smallest of things ...and climb, since we cannot fly, we climb, building a ladder of gratitude.  It does not come easy, forced like never before.  "Find the smallest thing" those before us say ....and we pass it on, "find the smallest of things ...start there" we say to the ones so recently hollowed.  Quick nods, "okay", we'll try anything to survive and we'll start by being grateful for the smallest of things ....shoelaces still in sneakers, the key to the car, running water, a soft pillow ...that we don't have ants.  From there, we begin a climb ....and we follow the ones before us ....and we climb.

Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her.  May she rest in peace.  Amen