without a trace
It often seems as though the last year of my life has vanished. The pregnancy, the twins, the losses are things I read about, or imagined, or that happened to someone else. Those months have been ripped out and the ends whip stitched together, like squares of a quilt.
It reminds me of a story my grandmother used to tell me, as I sat at her kitchen table in the days before anyone worried about salmonella, scraping the sides of a bowl and licking cake batter from a spoon. Her aunt married a magician, tall and handsome, with a black mustache. He delighted the children with his tricks and his showman’s patter, right up until the day that he disappeared
9 comments:
I know what you mean. My husband mentioned something yesterday that happened two years ago, and I said, "Wasn't that last year?" Then I realized, no, I've just lost the last year of my life somehow.
Bart and I were saying something similar the other day. We had a year taken away from us, with nothing but grief to show.
I am amazed and jealous of your conversations with potential surrogates, by the way. I may come back and ask you for more information about that. We're weighing our options and am supposed to start gearing up for fertility treatment again soon. (tick tock) But not sure that I can stand it. Any of it. This month I thought that I was pregnant again by mistake (more than a week late) and I cried and cried.
this was beautifully written.
time is a more fluid thing than we credit it with being.
frumiousb Feel free to ask me whatever questions you want. I'm so sorry about your last cycle. It sometimes hurts more to hope than to expect to be disappointed.
Somehow your image of time lost and the ends of the quilt sewn together reminds me of that not uncommon dream wherein you're walking through your house and discover a door to a room that isn't there. And in the dream, it's so palpable. And the next morning, you walk by that spot and can't imagine where the door was.
I'm not saying that you dreamed anything. Just what it reminded me of.
Yeah, I know.
I also feel a bit out of time altogether. I feel like the time in front and behind me is hidden by fog. Sometimes the fog shifts just enough for me to remember something from the past year, but the fog in front is so dense I can't even make out the general outlines.
I know just what you mean about time and grieving, time and calamity. My internal clock feels like it should still be August, before my bad Fall began, and my losses were not nearly as world-shaking.
I hear ya on this one. The last few months just seem to run together, and it's hard to imagine the next few months without tears.
This happens to me, as well. I was thinking recently about how long I have lived in this house and realized that it has been three years rather than two. Of course I remember the last year, but it is like it is draped in a fog.
Oh, I just read down further and saw that Julia wrote about fog, too.
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