In her post Happy-sad, Carol writes of the strange realization that life has become some semblance of ordinary again, five years after the stillbirth of her daughter Charlotte. She speaks of occupying her skin, of a moment of lone reflection without feeling drowned in memory, of feeling peaceful as mother to the two children at her side.

Four years later, I am here in a much more comfortable place, a place where I admit that yes, I am grieving, but I am also human: and sometimes, it feels nice to go first. To eat when I am hungry, to think for a few minutes without first thinking about somebody else. To be out in the hot, night air, and to walk slowly, and to not worry about whether I was moving too fast, or too slowly, or if there was going to be traffic on the way home. ... and try to make me hold my chin up like a normal person, not like a grieving, slightly manic babylost mama who is pretty sure she is broken and her two living children are some sort of fluke.

Linus and his attachment to his blanket draws laughter, but C. and her blanket wraps us in thoughts of our relationship to our grief. Linus carries one, too  breaks our hearts and at the same time draws our breath for the beauty of writing.

I have a blanket, too, though it does not swaddle my much loved son. This blanket surrounds me and I know it as grief. I fall asleep under it every night and in the morning, I wake up with it tangled around my body and limbs. During the day, I carry it around, cloak myself in it because, sadly, it is the only tie I have to the son that should be here with me right now. But he’s not. It’s the only fitting replacement I have found, even though it is not a decent substitute at all. Some days it merely trips me up. Others it keeps those who love me at bay; its continued existence leaving them puzzled or uncomfortable or unsure of what to say. And while I would like to believe its presence offers me some protection, some semblance of comfort and security, it really offers me nothing at all. Just a tangible *thing* I can hang on to that can offer evidence of the deep and unwavering love I have for him; a love I will always have for him even though I can never bring him home.

In her post Never Enough Time, Lori of Losses and Gains weaves a story of loss across generations, of time, of hard-won wisdom, and of course, of love.

Nana noticed me looking at the photo and she said quietly, "That little boy died."  I nodded and answered gently, "I know, Nana.  I'm so sorry." Because of course while that little boy didn't really die, but instead the grown man that he became, I knew to her that it didn't feel that way at all.

It didn't feel like her son of nearly 70 years died, but in fact that little sunny faced boy she still carried with her deep in the recesses of her heart and memory. No matter how old he was, he still wasn't supposed to die first. It still wasn't enough time.