The grief tornado

This is how grief works.

Last night, I took Lorenzo to his (adorable) toddler tumbling class, Peanut Butter & Jelly (aka "PBJ"), at the Charlottesville city rec center. It was a busy weeknight at the rec. As we walked down the hall after PBJ, I saw a bunch of parents clustered around a classroom door, and I peeked inside. There was a group of (adorable) 4 year old girls, in pink leotards and tutus practicing ballet in the studio.

All of a sudden, the world turned grey and menacing and my heart broke all over again. The sense of loss welled up and ripped through me like a tornado. Isla should be here. She should be clomping around in tights and giggling in this tangle of preschoolers. I should be picking her up down the hall on this ordinary Tuesday evening and taking both of my kids home to eat dinner. 

I just got down on the floor and hugged Lorenzo and for once he didn't squirm away. After several long moments, I pretended to fiddle with his jacket zipper so the rest of the people in this crowded hallway wouldn't see me sobbing. I stayed there until I could see and walk again. The tornado passed, and we got up and headed home to cook dinner. Such a quick return to the world of mundane, peaceful domestic tasks. But ouch, my heart. It comes out of nowhere and just absolutely floors me.

The best part of this story happened later that evening, as I was recounting it to Dan. He had joined us for the first part of PBJ then left early for another class in the building. I was in the kitchen, packing lunches for the next day.

I said,  "After PBJ, I walked down the hall and saw these little girls-" and just stopped to take a breath. Then he was right there beside me and finished my sentence "-doing ballet" and wrapped me in a big hug and didn't let go. He knew, he knows, and he's the only one who will ever know it the same way I do. We miss Isla's presence in our lives so much, every day, in ways large and small. Walking around with this hole in my heart is comforted by the fact that I have Dan and Lorenzo.

Lots of love and a renewed sense of loss as we approach our baby's fourth birthday.