I feel sick.
Like vomit sick.
I thought I would feel differently.
I thought moving it would bring me a step closer to healing.
Today I tackled this --
It has sat under my dining room hutch for three years.
It has stared at me, reminding me every.single.day.
I didn't know what to do with it then.
I still don't.
Opening it was a sucker punch.
Cards that tell me how sorry people are that my baby is dead.
A box with casts of her hand and foot prints.
A locket of her hair.
There is a tiny bit of matter on one of the casts.
A speck of something --
It was the last thing on my daughter's hand when she died.
It is entombed forever in that cast.
This is so fucked.
All of it.
No one should have a box like this in their dining room.
No one should have cards saying, "I am sorry your baby died."
No one should have a few strands of hair as the only remaining DNA to prove their child existed.
I thought it would be a relief to move it.
I thought I would feel better --
My grief is like this box of items.
It may appear neat, tucked away in some corner,
but peek under the cover and you'll see --
inside it is still just a mess.