Everything was absolutely perfect for Harper's memorial. The weather was lovely, the words we chose were heartfelt, the hugs we received from family and friends and colleagues were so much better in person than the virtual ones that have been pouring in, the flowers and pictures were beautiful. Shea sang to himself, a beautiful song, as he played at our feet during the service. An adorable caterpillar crawled by as we spoke, and a hawk landed in the trees above - it was not hard to believe they somehow capture Harper's spirit, with us, watching over us.
And the whole day, in all honesty, felt like a giant hug. I was happy that our little bean touched so many and that we had such an extraordinary net of love and understanding and support.
Until the exhaustion set in and the sound of voices around me again began to feel too loud, too much.
Everyone left, including Lou and Shea who had to pick up our exiled dogs. The house grew quiet.
The tears came again. And this time it felt like GRIEF. Real grief. The hardest, hurtingest, wracking sorts of sobs, collapsed on the kitchen floor.
Yesterday, I took a long walk in the woods with Denver dog on another perfect, beautiful day, and I imagined having Harper with me, carried in the Bjorn, like I used to do with Shea, on the very same path through the woods with the dogs. I could almost feel her soft head and smell her and hear her breathing.
It was exactly the kind of perfect day, just like today, that I so wanted to share with Harper before she died.
But I couldn't.I will never feel her soft head again, never carry her on that path through the woods.
Because the thing is, no matter how perfect the day, no matter how perfect and beautiful and sweet the memorial. No matter how much we try to focus on the positive. No matter how much it feels like planning a wedding, there's no happy ending at the end of the day.
It doesn't bring her back. It doesn't really make it better.
Today we gave Harper her Hebrew name - Kinnor Miriam - and the gathering at our house felt very much like what we would have had for a naming ceremony. But the celebration is over, and I have no baby.
I still feel the hug of those who came, but would rather feel the weight of a baby in my arms.
Hard to imagine a return to "normal" life when I still can't get through a day without crying.
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