Day One: Her mom's joy and her dad's pride are enough to carry me through this weirdly anticlimactic day I've been dreading and waiting for for months. I am not her momma anymore.
Day Two: Texts from her new home fill some of the emptiness in my heart. As do the countless expressions of support and prayer from family and the reminder of the Truth on which I stand. I am not alone anymore.
Day Three: The missing grips me and I bury my head in another novel; maybe someone else's story will hurt less than mine today. I am not strong anymore.
Day Four: I know that only time can heal, but time is not cooperating. It crawls lazily and nothing I do succeeds in hurrying it along. I kick it once more anyway, because I have to try. I am not gracious anymore.
Day Five: It aches below my ribcage but above my stomach. How does it feel like both a mass and a vacuum all at once? I am not whole anymore.
Day Six: I slow myself down on the outside, trying to live in each moment. Maybe if I soak in the goodness of the precious ones around me, I won't dwell on the one who is no longer mine to hold. It almost works. I am not calm anymore.
Day Seven: Is it a bit better today or is it just the chocolate talking? Either way, distractions start to distract and joys start to bring joy. I am not absorbed anymore.
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