If you look at me, you may not see my wounds. I have all my fingers, arms, and legs that I was born with.
When a mother loses a child, there’s a feeling that is similar, I suppose, to that of one who loses a limb.
As the date of her death is approaching, I’m feeling afraid. I’m afraid of the pain. The memory of that day, weeks afterward.
Does time heal all wounds? No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. Not this.
Once a child is gone, what is left? Memories, remanents of clothes, and pictures. A person who loses a leg, can get a prosthetic leg and learn to walk again, but what can a mother do?
A mother can keep walking forward, but there’s always the pain. There’s always an ache and a limp that only another mother who lost a child can recognize.
A person who loses a limb sometimes reaches out to touch the phantom limb when the ache overcomes them. Similarly, a mother reaches out.
The advice I give myself is to keep walking, even if it hurts, keep going on.
