Member-only story
A Letter To Etta
Observing grief after a month without my infant daughter
Etta –
This week marks one month since your death, my sweet girl. As we speak, you are becoming nutrient-rich soil. Soon, you will fuel plants, fruits, and ecosystems of birds and bees across the country — an everlasting return to Earth.
The impossibility of your loss feels no easier to bear today than it did four weeks ago. It’s worse, now further removed from clasping your sweet hand, holding you in my arms, napping on the couch while you nap on my chest, rocking you to sleep in the midnight hours, guiding my thumb over the delicate arch of your nose.
I’ve decided to dedicate all future letters about grief to you. This is how I speak with you now. This is how I keep you alive. Talking to you is as healing as it is painful. And frankly, I have no interest in speaking to or with anybody else. I also promised I would always be honest with you.
I know someday, grief will hold me close, like a hug. But right now, it is merciless. I thought I was well-versed in grief. Even before your absence, I was no stranger to the bitter lessons of loss. I felt intimate…
