Eight years ago sometime between 11pm June 18th and 6 am June 19th, I lost my first daughter, stillborn at approximately 8 months of pregnancy.  She was born late at night, July 21st, induced because my body refused to let her go.

I still feel sad, I still miss her, I still feel pain.  It has changed over time, less intense and rageful.  Every year, it sneaks up on me, and then I suddenly realize it's *that time* again.

My chest has that dull ache of tears unshed.

On the 19th, my eldest* daughter started asking me questions about 'her sister who died'.  I went to work, and buried my sadness.  On the drive home, the radio played "You'll Be in My Heart", from the Tarzan soundtrack.  It was the first movie we saw after the baby died, and that song had me bawling right in the theatre.  This year, obviously I needed to remember.

My ex doesn't seem to remember, since tonight he told me he was moving out at the end of July, and we need to sell the car before then.  He told me, after we separated, that when it came to Anne, he would always be there for me.  I don't think he meant it.  Or rather, he meant it at the time, as he so often does.

Oh, and he's moving in with the woman he claims he didn't leave me for.  Am I surprised?  No.  Do I care?  Only vaguely.  Not on his account, not because of feelings I have, etc., but because I think of my daughters living there every other week, and it hurts.  But I will never watch my first baby grow up at all, which makes me cherish the time I have with my girls all the more.

My heart tells me she is trying to tell me she still loves me, even though her daddy doesn't.  Tomorrow I'm going to buy a vanilla candle, and light it for my darling Anne, and hope her spirit is faring well, wherever she is.  

Happy birthday, sweetling.



* - for years I said my eldest living daughter, but now I don't feel the need to share my pain with strangers.