I had to go into Coraline's room today. It's the first time I've set foot in there since before she was born. The last time I was in there, I was rocking in the Poang chair, piecing together the last of her quilt and lampshade, very pregnant.
Our new printer came with free photo paper, and seeing as I'm returning to work tomorrow, I really want a framed picture for my desk. So does Matt. But the excess frames I knew we had were still in her closet. I took a deep breath, shut my eyes and opened the door.
I couldn't look at anything. I felt around for the closet door handle, which actually had the shell-shaped remote for her crib-mobile still hanging from it. I could still sense where everything in the room is placed, down to the diapers on her changing table. I tried to turn the light on in the closet, and when I opened my eyes, remembered that the light had blown shortly before she was born. So that may have been a blessing in disguise, I couldn't see much. I found the frames, shut my eyes, turned around and felt my way back out of the room.
I don't want to live in "fear" of my daughter, or all the hopes and dreams we had for her, or the plans we made for our family. As I explain to Matt when I'm out of explanations "it just hurts". There's not enough words to say how deep, how excruciating and raw the pain is. It just hurts.
But I now have two beautiful framed photos of my daughter, one for each of us. And when someone noses around my desk and asks "oh, who's that?", I can say with a smile and pride "my daughter, Coraline."
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