I'm working on a book. It is likely the same book I've been working on since before this blog existed, beforee my thirteen-year-old daughter existed, and before I met Ben. I've been writing the bits and pieces in movie quotes stashed in my journal and texted to myself in messages; song lyrics scribbled in the edges of my calendar or shared with one of my kids on my morning drive to school; poems I wrote before parenting took over and my brain still thought in rhyme and meter; and stories I still write when I give myself permission.
I returned to my blog while combing through every file that belongs to me and was surprised by the date stamp on the last entry. I remember writing it as though it was just the other day. I wonder if certain memories stay with us - close like that- because they make us happy.
My surprise quickly gave way to reality because even though I recall the memory as though it were a few days ago - I also know, the depth of pain and sadness that followed us afterwards and which is likely why I chose not to write.
Izzy had said, "We're one of the lucky ones," and I remember feeling so happy and content that she could see and understand how loved she was.
Looking back, I wish I would have affirmed all the effort we'd put in to creating her family... her existence... her happiness.
It wasn't long after that conversation that everything changed. I felt blindsided by Izzy's darkness and how no one could reach her.
I'm still blindsided even though I know where the darkness comes from. I do not believe luck exists. I do, however, wish that it did.