transition.

Swirling constantly goes the mind

So much to juggle and so many decisions to be made

Shelves are empty and china dishes are packed

Blink back the tears that spring forth

a box that brings memories.

0-3,3-6,6-9 month. Pink. Soft.

HIS words... put your hand to the plow and don't look back.

But it's not the sadness I hear Him gently speaking to

It's the debilitating grief.

"Don't look back," I say to myself.

The boxes stack up in front of me and help me focus

Focus on the future.

But every few weeks without prompting

my heart aches still.

Sometimes the cardboard box that says Pampers

sometimes the empty guest room

"Don't look back," I repeat.

Slowly, the pictures were taken down from the wall

slowly, ever so slowly, I allowed myself to wonder:

Will this go back up in my new home?

So much ahead... but that doll in the laundry basket of baby clothes

The bottles and pacifiers...

"Don't look back."

It seems harder this time around

No more memories of her in the new house -

she wasn't there.

She didn't sleep there; eat there; or learn to sit up on her own

but she did here.

So much to remember; so much to miss

"Don't look back," I plead with myself.

Oh, baby girl. I miss you.