. . .

Today, I feel wretched. Not only did I manage to get some kind of upper respiratory infection at the fest, but coming back home just opened up all the wounds all over again and reminded me that Sarah’s fucking gone. At the fest, no one knew. We didn’t tell anyone. It was almost like pretending it didn’t happen. I didn’t talk to anyone long enough for them to ask me “how’s your daughter” so I never had to deal with it. At Powell’s, it was hard. She loved Powell’s. But even that I managed to mitigate by buying that blank book to write in. Whenever I had something to say to Sarah, I wrote it in the book.

They say that there are certain stages of grief that people go through in a certain order. I seem to just be vacillating between anger and denial. Right now, I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry. And my head hurts, and I miss my baby. Is crying good for you when you have a head cold?