Yesterday an acquaintance posted on FB looking for help with a costume from other mothers with "dancer daughters."
I read it as "cancer daughters."
Life has moved on. Husband, surviving children, me ~ all at work, all productive, all moving forward.
I know; I've said it all before. La-dee-dah. I have to remind myself.
Because, in many ways, time stopped for me on the afternoon of September 3, 2008 at the Jesuit Retreat Center outside of Detroit. In many ways I am still standing there in my bedroom, phone in my ear, floor and room oddly tilted and dangling in the air, no longer tethered by gravity. The entire world still slants askew, and I often feel as if I am walking along a ridge, one foot firmly planted on the path following the crest, and the other constantly slipping down through the dirt and mud eroding the mountain and sliding down . . . to where, exactly?
I don't think it's too noticeable, although I could be wrong. I do my stuff. But I am so alert to this other world, the one in which mothers clutch bodies of children to their hearts and wail silently through the rest of their lives. The one in which it will always be that late summer afternoon.
And so I see the words "cancer daughters" in place of "dancer daughters."