This is my glider rocker. Dave bought it for me when we moved to our townhouse a little over a year ago. I had always wanted a chair specifically for reading. This chair was perfect for that. We put it in the spare bedroom which is also my reading room (since we seldom have anyone stay with us). I remember being excited at the thought of rocking a new baby as well. My grandson had not yet made his debut in this world when we bought the chair. Over the last sixteen months, this chair has been a haven for me on many occasions. It is upstairs away from the noise of the television. The window of the spare bedroom overlooks the woods by our place, and when the window is open, the sounds of birds, squirrels, rustling leaves, and an occasion “hoo-hoo” of an owl can be heard.
It has also been the place where I rocked a tired boy to sleep. Whether it be for his nap time or if Grammy had him overnight, we would always spend time in the rocking chair, me singing softly to him as he drifted off to sleep. Funny that his favorite song to fall asleep to was a Dixie Chicks song.
This morning, I dragged the vacuum upstairs to clean up the mess of cat food on the floor in the office where the cats eat. I decided to do a run through of the spare bedroom as well. The pack and play where the baby slept is put away. The baby monitor we bought because we had him so much sits on the bedside table, almost taunting me that it is no longer needed. The white noise machine is still plugged into the wall. The chair sits where it always has. I sat down in it and started to cry. My arms ache to hold him. It has only been five days since they left, but with the exception of our vacation last fall, this has been the longest I have had to go without holding him. And that time is only going to get longer.
Tears. So many tears. I honestly didn’t think a body cold produce this many tears. They fill my eyes, spilling down onto my face, eventually landing on my shirt or the floor. They disappear–dry up as if they were never shed. But then comes more. And even more. My heart is broken. It physically hurts, just as my arms physically ache to hold a baby and rock him to sleep. I have been criticized by many.
“He isn’t dead,” they tell me.
Damn. Don’t they know I know that? Do they realize their words don’t help? The ache is real regardless. My heart is broken still. Their words just hurt more. A heart can only take so much and mine is at its limit. I seriously think one can die of a broken heart.
I will still sit in my chair.
I will sit here and cry more tears.
My arms will continue to ache.
My heart will stay broken for a long while, if not forever.
This is just too hard.