Harder Days

Some days are just harder. 

I’ve had a lot of them recently. Harder days, where no amount of play can get rid of the ache. A day spent at home, resting, cleaning, with baby; where you feel more bored than you believe possible. A day he would have loved and you would have loved with him. But alone, you just feel alone. You don’t cry, because you know you can’t cry hard enough. You will scream when you are alone again. And you can’t find an app to entertain you. And the news, social media, and the world are imploding. And you don’t want to just numb the pain, but this wave doesn’t seems to be going anywhere. This time the grief is more like a flood than a wave. It’s like you are under a still ocean, not just being hit with waves. 

And you know you are tired and need rest, but you wish it were Monday because work takes your mind off the boredom. Work helps you forget that he is gone and life on earth, the only life you know, will never have his joy again. 

And you want it to end, but it won’t. And you want to quit, but you can’t. So you make sure she has some joy and that’s something. And you watch the clock hoping the day will soon end. 

And it ends. The lights go out.  The baby falls asleep. And you can tune the world out for a while and sleep. Blessed sleep. Another day is done.