The baby we lost would’ve turned two in August. That whole month I felt like I couldn’t breathe; grief pressed down on me anew like the summer heat. Most of the time I feel like my grief has passed, but now I think it’s just shifted to another place, like when you adjust your baby on your hip to make him easier to carry. Most of the time I forget I’m carrying it. This is the kind of trauma that no one prepares you for and no one talks about. And it doesn’t really go away, I’m finding.
September came (and went), and I felt myself exhale. And now it’s October and finally we’ve put the summer behind us, good and bad and hard, and grief shifts under crackling leaves and that chill in the air. I’m an unashamed sucker for everything pumpkin and happily trade iced coffees for hot ones, and we pull out long sleeved pajamas and assess what still fits from last winter. And we breathe.