Over the last two days, I have spent 3 hours coloring rocks. Saying that makes my eyes squint and my eyebrows furrow, coloring rocks? I don't understand how 3 months ago I was measuring out medications and matching bows to her outfits and now I find myself sitting on a sidewalk with my legs stretched out onto a surface of rocks while my hand reaches for different acrylic markers to use to color large rocks that bring life to her place of death.
There is typically the perfect breeze that meets me shortly after I arrive, or maybe it just takes me a little while to notice it is around me. I wonder if there is a notification system that lets her know she has a visitor. I sometimes wonder if the wind is a greeting from her letting me know she knows I am there. I wonder if she has the option to sit with me while I am there, and if she has the option, I wonder if she does? If she knows, I wonder if it brings her comfort that I visit as often as I do, or does she wish I wouldn't? Funny how I still second guess my parenting of her, I guess some things just won't ever change.
The main thought that fills my mind while I color her rocks is, "how is this my reality?" It is almost some horrible irony that after close to 5 years of my parenting of her requiring me a tremendous amount of thought to ensure she remained alive, my responsibility has now been diminished to a completely mindless activity such as coloring. As if it is intended to be some trade-off or some reward, but instead it just feels like my own personal form of capital punishment. I am not supposed to be sitting in a cemetery coloring large rocks because I don't like them being stuck in a basket. I am not supposed to be repurposing a room that was specifically constructed solely for her. I am not supposed to be thinking about how our quarantine would be looking right now had she been alive. I am not supposed to be sitting in a cemetery because my four-year-old daughter died almost 2 months ago.
Instead of even entertaining that time might help, I just feel like every day becomes harder. Every day is another one that she wasn't here for. Every day is another one that makes her actual loss that much further away. Every day makes it the new longest since she has been here. Every day just makes me miss her differently, miss her more, and miss her a new too much. I don't wish we should go back to her enduring all she had to, but I do wish I could do more for her than just painting rocks.