A decade of July
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In the cold embrace of July's despair,
A heartache blooms, a soul laid bare.
A tiny life, a precious dream,
Snuffed out too soon, it would seem.
In whispered winds, a sorrow's breath,
A cherished soul embraced by death.
A heartbeat stilled, a lullaby unsung,
In the icy grip of July's cruel tongue.
A cradle empty, dreams unmet,
A future lost, a deep regret.
The world goes on while hearts break,
In the silent anguish of July's wake.
The sun may shine, the flowers bloom,
But in this heart, there's only gloom.
A fleeting spark, a love untold,
Aching emptiness takes hold.
In this cold month, the tears fall,
A grieving heart bears it all.
A precious life, gone with no sound,
In the cold month of July, you're not around.
Though July's cold winds may chill,
Our love for you will warm us still.
So rest in peace, dear child of July,
In our hearts, you'll stay forever.
For though you left us far too soon,
Your light will shine beyond the moon.
I've been writing this post in my head so many times. I have tried to frame it a hundred different ways but always found the words lacking. My hatred for July is at the heart of it. The way it creeps up year after year, with suffocating consistency. I don't have pretty words about July, no prose, no poetic analogies. It arrived this year on schedule, unnaturally cold with flurries and snowflakes that melted as quickly as they fell. Maybe that was an extra dig at me. Ten years and all. It tapped me on the shoulder and brought with it reminders of gloom and tears. It sucks. Truly, it sucks because my daughter died and never returned to us. Maybe that's what I need to say: It fucking sucks that July comes every year and reminds me that she is gone forever. Ten years later, it still fucking sucks like a thorn under my skin.
It's a kind of hurt that never truly fades away. The memories still claw at me, refusing to be buried, like a nightmare that only intensifies with time. July feels like an anchor dragging me down further and further into the depths of despair. Every song is a silent scream echoing her absence. Every movie serves as a heartbreaking reminder of what could have been. Every glance in the mirror is a cruel joke that I've aged while she remains frozen in time.
The only way to describe this feeling is like living in an eternal night, where everything I see and do is steeped in sorrow and cloaked in misery. Even on the brightest days, there's always this shadow of grief stalking me, ready to consume me whole. This year has been suffocatingly hard; it feels like my mind rewinds itself constantly to replay her death again and again - I hear the doctor saying there isn't a heartbeat, feel her lifeless body in my arms, and feel the crushing self-loathing come back with renewed force.
Ten years ago, I was twenty-nine. I knew babies died, and yet I didn't really understand it until it was my own child I was holding. I have strands of grey in my hair now and I've aged so much more than I thought I would. I'm a year from forty but feel like I'm fifty most days.
My toddler is now a teen. I've changed jobs and lost friends and other family in this decade.
It's taken me a long time to come to terms with what happened that fateful July day. I have had to grieve and mourn her privately at times, whether through my own need to protect my grief or otherwise. The hurt and anguish still remain deep within me. But I no longer fight against it or try to deny it, for it is an integral part of who I am now.
I can only hope that this post will serve as a reminder that everyone's pain and loss are valid. Even if you are the only one grieving your child, even if your friends and family don't remember her or him the way you do, they matter and you matter too. The ache in your chest should never be diminished or underestimated. Your emotions are valid, even if nobody else ever acknowledges them.
So if you find yourself alone in the darkness of July, know that you are not alone in your feelings of sorrow and despair. Someone out there understands and will hold you through it all until the sun rises again on August 1st.
All anniversaries are hard, but these big ones - the monumental ones - are something else. How have you managed? What helps you get through? What do you need? If you haven’t made it to five or ten or twenty or twenty-five, can you imagine it? How can we help each other?