Rated R for Language

We spent the afternoon getting Gabrielle’s room ready for new furniture. I haven’t spent too much time in there because it still looks like Jasmine will stroll in at any minute and complain about Gabrielle wearing her clothes. And she would complain, because that seems to be Gab’s favorite thing these days — Jasmine’s clothes. I totally understand. She wears them to feel closer to Jasmine. I might too if I could.

Mostly we went through clothes, because they have an obscene amount. One of Jasmine’s favorite things was to bargain shop at thrift stores. It was a project that had been planned for some time. “You guys have way too many clothes,” Jeff and I declared many times over the past six months. “You need to go through them and decide what you don’t wear anymore.” We didn’t think Jasmine’s death would be the reason for not wearing her clothes.

I stood in her closet, surrounded by clothes, at least one item being so old that she wore it when she was three, and, after working for awhile, I simply sank to my knees and cried. Jeff and Gab had left the room for a moment and I just had too much time to be surrounded by her black velvet and leather. My little budding goth girl. I was so proud.

Finally, Jeff came back in and sort of awkwardly patted my shoulder. It was awkward because I was crouched in a tiny closet and all he could do was stand in the doorway with Nina dangling from one arm (no balconies, thanks) and try to comfort me. Then I looked up at Nina and she grinned, delighted to see Mom again (it had been a five minute separation, for Pete’s sake!) and all I could do was smile at her through the tears.

A little while later Jeff was in there alone and had a similar experience. We decided that when we have to go through Jasmine’s stuff, we should do it together. It’s too hard to do it alone, because for some reason, in the midst of crying, I cannot get up to ask for the comfort I need. Same goes for Jeff. So we’ll do it together.

Lately I am thinking about what it will be like to leave the last house Jasmine was alive in. How will I feel about moving to a house that Jasmine never saw? Gods, for that matter, all the things I experience from now on that Jasmine will never know? Oh yes, I know, she “knows” from where she is, but it’s not the same. It’s just not. And I can’t get over the unfairness of that. Fucking CF. Fucking “mystery illness” that caused her fucking lungs to turn to fucking leather. I hate it.

So I guess I’m in the anger stage of grieving. I hope it doesn’t last long. I am keeping a pretty tight lid on it at home — my kids and husband do not need to deal with that — but it is constantly in the background these days, like the needle of a tattoo gun stinging and buzzing. I would love to hear any suggestions for an outlet. Leave ’em in the comments.

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