Over the next few years Elannah Rose grew into a wonderful, loving, and funny little child. Her existence was all the motivation I needed to really nail the whole “adulting” thing, which somehow seemed less intimidating and complex than it does today. I didn’t nail it, but I felt like I was doing ok. Life was perfect in its imperfection.
Elannah Rose joined me at college, concerts, music festivals, and almost every other new experience. She was my little mini-me. I don’t think I ever questioned whether she would be welcome at whatever I was doing and I was blessed to make friends with people who welcomed and loved her dearly.
As she grew up (as we both grew up) life changed, our family grew. Eventually, the source of my original and purest joy became the source of my greatest pain.
I can’t adequately describe the hole that fills her void. It’s the pit of despair, the monster in the deep, deep, dark. The clown in the gutter. The insidious fog in the air.
“Still?” Wish I had the courage to answer that the way I want to, but I guess I still have too many fucks to give.
Nothing that I have experienced, before or after she left us, has compared to the anguish and the vacuum that losing her created. Elannah Roses birthdays mark the transition from this intense annual mourning into a more normal state of mind, but the hole is always there. The absence of her is tangible. And as I have learned, nothing is really not the trigger.
So, here I sit. In my little yellow chair, earphones tucked in and volume at maximum, memories rolling over me. Gentle ripples and tidal waves. Figuring out how to get through the day, yet again.
