I sit on my couch and look across my living room at Mila's quiet bean bag chair propped against the shelves. I close my eyes and imagine her warm body pushed up against mine. I smell her hair, my head just above hers. I feel my hand on her chest, gently rising and falling. Then I open my eyes and look around at the emptiness.
The sadness comes on suddenly. In some ways it's getting harder, more frequent. Part of me knows I have to face it, but another part turns and runs far far away. As I walk, I look down and notice the imprints of rugged boots in the mud and melting snow. I hear birds. I long to connect with Mila, but I feel blocked. I breathe in slowly and deeply, then breathe out. The background fades. And then I let go. In the air around me, I hear the little giggle I've come to know.
Azlan just turned seven. The same age as Mila when she began milasen. On Azlan’s birthday, alone in our home, I watch him. I realize how tall he is. I notice his curiosity about tornadoes, gem stones and Harry Potter. I think back and wonder if I was ever really present with him? “I’m sorry”, I told him. “I know my mind has been somewhere else, but I want to get to know you now.”. He turned to me and said, "I know mommy, you were always thinking about Mila. But it's ok."
Today I feel alone in my post. Just me. It's been one month since Mila's spirit left her body. But it feels like yesterday. I've tried to put a pen to paper and express the images and feelings running through my mind. But something stops me each time. Just as I turned to this journal to help me prepare for what was to come, today I find myself turning to it to find my way back into life. Ending this journal with Mila's death doesn't seem right. My life continues as a single mom to Azlan, as a fighter for rare disease, as a person changed forever. This is part of Mila's story. And so I continue to share...
