A Visit to the Cemetery--May

When I visit Caitlin's grave, I cry a little less. I stare more and even my mind is numb. I notice the changes in the items I've brought to her, brought to help me connect with my daughter. The angel still wears a content smile despite the now flawed paint. The squeeze toy that once delighter her in the NICU crib remains, though sometimes still soaked from the rain and with bits of grass from the recent cutting. It still sounds, but I have to squeeze it a couple times to get it going. The first butterfly is gone, the puppy is gone, and some of the silk flowers are gone. I brought her another squeeze toy, a frog this time. I'm getting ready for the day the other is gone or doesn't work anymore. 

I still talk to her, but my words come haltingly and sometimes I begin only to have the numbness take away the rest of my thoughts. The voices of the other mourners are silent now, as well. I once looked out at the expansive cemetery and could feel the pain poured into each stone with a name. I knew the agony. I try to conjure their longing, but now their pain is at rest. Odd. It was so real, as tangible as the earth beneath which my daughter lies.