Death Certificate Arrives

We received her death certificate in the mail. It's printed on dark blue parchment paper with the official watermark. When you hold the heavy paper to the light, the watermark brings pink, salmon, and even red colors to the paper. I didn't realize that even the look and feel of the paper would reflect the finality of her death and frailness of her life.

I read every bit of information as though I might discover something new about my daughter. I didn't. With her full name spelled correctly, the document of vital records confirmed each diagnosis from her Trisomy 21 and heart defect to the bowel perforation and sepsis that caused her death. Also documented is the exact number of days she lived, the number of hours it took for her die from the perforation, and the exact time of death.

Wishing I would weep, I folded the document carefully into it's neat trifold and placed it back in the envelope. I sat quietly waiting to fold with grief the way I did each moment, then hour, then day, month, and year after she died. The pain wasn't there this moment, only a dull acceptance. I sigh. I wish it were different, but her Certificate of Vital Records confirms that it is not. My heart bears the watermark of her life. If you could unfold me and hold me up to the light you would see the evidence of Caitlin's presence. She shines through in pink, salmon, and red hues.

I need only wait, and the wave of grief will crush me when it arrives, but that will not happen today.