Three steps from my bedroom door there is a framed photograph, hung just below eye level of her final ultrasound. My finger pauses on the perfect profile every morning on my way to the bathroom. I don’t remember when this ritual began but it’s an ingrained part of my day now. A predictable moment of purposeful thought. Good morning, Aurora. I love you.
Most days I move along. Happier now, content even. Our days back to bustling and full of lives details. Thoughts of her are there but managed. Peaceful. I can tell our story on these good days without breaking down. See twins and smile rather than shrink within myself.
Other days the tears flow out of nowhere. Somedays I want to simply stop and scream – this isn’t fair. Some days I do.
I often wish I’d held her longer, memorized her features and fingers just a little bit more. Even though I know that all the hours in all of my days could never be enough.
I get angry at how chaotic and awful everything was in those moments we shared. Wishing there had been time for peace and clarity for just a moment before they wrapped her up to take her away. Wishing that it had been possible for the two of them to be with me, together, outside of my womb for even the smallest moment before they were wisked off in separate directions. I fight with my imagination, I try to block out what I know happened to her from there. I feel helpless because I could not protect her or join her. Because she had to go alone.
Most days I tell myself this tale of the ultimate sacrifice. One sister letting go of her life so the other could live. Others I feel that story is complete and utter bullshit.
On a table in my bedroom sits a bag, within a metal canister, within a box where her cremated body lies. We’ve yet to transfer them to her urn because I can’t bear to do it myself nor can I bring myself to venture back to the funeral home I’ve never been. On the bad days I take the bag out and study her ashes. The weight of them in my hands combined with the weight of her sister across my chest somehow makes me feel whole again. I consider for a second this may be morbid or strange, a thought that is immediately devoured by my need to connect.. Within the dust are several tiny bones, too small to have been destroyed. I am grateful they exist to prove she was alive. That she was more than a memory.
On the good days I am grateful that I alone got to learn who she was from the way she fluttered inside me. That we shared this secret, this time, this bond. Just me and her and Nova. On the days the tears flow until my eyes swell, I hate that this is a pain that can’t be shared. That no one in the entire universe will ever miss her the way I miss her. I wish that just once someday, someone else would say, “It really fucking sucks that Aurora isn’t here.” That the opportunity for the world to learn who she was, was stolen before she got the opportunity to leave her mark.
I suppose the difference between the good and bad days is that I let myself grieve now. I grab the tissues and settle in and miss her. I hum Tom Waits tunes and allow myself to long for all the twin-ly things we will never know. I cry for the dreams we’ll never get to see realized or reconfigured. I tell Nova I’m sorry it has to be this way and promise her that her sister will always be as much of her life as I can make her. I hope that someday it will all make more sense than it does now. I cry until I can’t cry anymore knowing that when I’m done I will still be able to put one foot in front of the other. That tomorrow will come and she still will be gone but it might just be one of the good days.