I tidied my bedroom today, a job I’ve been putting off for months maybe years. My bookcase was overflowing and my make up case was going wild.
I didn’t want to touch the bookcase as I knew it was full of memories and moments I couldn’t repeat. Full of bits and piece’s of my missing little girl.
As I started tidying up I felt extreme anger at the dust, I mean how dare it fall on her things. I know the fault is mine for not keeping on top of it, but common sense often doesn’t play a part in grief.
I remember films I’ve seen of rooms left untouched forgotten by the years, the only visitors being dust and decay.
How blooming dare it.
I wonder if my mind will ever become like the bookcase slowly building up with dust so I cannot see her, hold her memories.
How dare time go by, the days into the years, the years now into a decade.
Is time the dust of the moments?
I’ve cleaned and I’ve dusted and I’ve cried. The tears opening the rawness of the pain, the emptiness of the missing. If love could hold Livvy close she would be wrapped up now in my arms.
As I wipe I am reminded of the numerous times I cleaned those beautiful cheeks. I remember clearly brushing that wayward hair.
I remember and I hold on tight to the sound of her laughter in my ears. The touch of her fingers in my mine.
The dust it may fall and the pages may curl but my heart holds her tight.
Time is not my enemy just the journey
towards my beautiful girl x