Another December

December arrived slowly and intentionally this year. Quietly, the days rolled over each other and this morning, December took my hand. We've woken up together eight times now. There's a lump in my throat, and pain in my chest, but this year it's quieter. I can see her dancing in the living room. As I walk through the silence of my home to begin another December, I can hear her laughing. I see her face, and she smiles at me.

I opened her box of things. The smell on her blanket is fading and her collection of candles from birthdays missed is growing. The lines on her tiny plaster foot are so perfect. Her toes are curled and I instantly remember having her in my arms. As I run my fingers over her tiny hand, each finger, her palm, I wish so hard that they would squeeze me back. Just once more.

This year's ornament arrived and I added it to her tree. Her ornaments, like her birthday candles, marking the years gone by. December is still heavy. It is still hard to carry. My heart is still broken and my daughter is still gone. She will always be gone. It's the most painful truth I've ever known and I feel the weight of it constantly. I move forward each day with that in my heart because I know that she is also here. And she will always be here. And I feel the light of her. Constantly.