Dear Eva,
I miss you still. I don't feel as though I can talk to anyone about you without feeling guilty. I'm not sure where I can turn, so I'm turning to you directly. Maybe the energy of you and my love for you have combined somewhere in the universe. If only. Eva, when I see your name, I am paralyzed. Eva, when I think of you, my throat constricts. I am sitting at my desk at work and I cannot do anything but long for you and try not to let that longing crush me.
This weekend, I baked cookies and ran for the first time with your brother and crawled around the floor with your sister, teaching her to walk. We watched the Superbowl (or part of it) together. Every good thing is diminished without you.
This weekend, I kept thinking of our drive to the hospital while you were dying. Your absence is the worst sort of violence.
This started as an online journal in early 2006. At the time, it was a carefree spot for silly diatribes and the occasional photo. Since then, I got pregnant with mono.amniotic mono.chorionic twins, learned one of our daughters had a heart defect, spent 11 weeks in a hospital room and 29 more days with Eva in the NICU and PICU before losing her. We have two children who are alive and thriving and one who didn't make it. For me, this has become that place in between.
