I know I don’t know.

And in an instant. And against your will. A quilt of sadness is draped over you. It is the heaviest quilt ever made. Yet you have no other thing to do but wear it like a shroud. It reeks of evil and does not shield you from the continued blows to your body and mind. You shiver despite its cover, from the freeze frames of the tragedy played over and over before your unbelieving, unblinking eyes.

And the day you put your child’s body in the ground, that heavy quilt becomes heavier from the weight and wet of your sobbing, and adheres to your body, and you just don’t care. There is goodness and love waiting outside the quilt for you, waiting to penetrate the tightly woven threads, but not today they won’t. And probably not tomorrow, either. No one knows when or if the weight of it will make you stronger or break you down. But you are wrapped in sorrow beyond penetration today. And there’s just no help for it.

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One Response to “I know I don’t know.”

  1. tim bogert Says:

    aprill, you articulated that moment perfectly. the weight and isolation seems unbearable. and it is a very long road ahead from that point. there really is no ‘getting over it’, but with time and lots of help, it’s possible to move forward. and the weight of the quilt becomes bearable (although i’m not sure it gets lighter, you get stronger from it’s weight). thank you for sharing, and I’m so sorry for your family’s loss.

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