Today it hurts

I'm still so scared. The future without her is unbearable. On my wedding day I know I'll be missing a bridesmaid, my daughters will be lacking a role model. Uni, graduation, dreams becoming reality - she won't be there. She won't be able to squeeze my hand, I won't be able to wrap my arms around her tiny, weeny frame and give her a massive hug. No 'Good Luck' text, no 'I love you' no ' YAAAYY' no squeals of delight, no'ahhhs' no silly baby chatter, no afternoons in Starbucks knitting, no days spent behind sewing machines attempting to be the next Laura Ashley, no dinner parties.

Her skin will never age, we won't compare wrinkles or crows feet, I'll never meet her husband and she'll never give her opinion on mine. Who will I complain about my Dry Lips to? No one to text late into the night, no one to buy lame tourist tshirts for.

If I put her photo on my fridge there'll come a time when I will have outgrown her and so will my children and perhaps my grandchildren. I'll look at that cheeky, happy face and see the countenance of a girl, barely a woman. What happens when I can no longer identify with her? What happens when her voice stops yapping incessantly in my head? What happens when I outgrow florals and have to choose more sophisticated items of clothing? What happens when the bodyshop give me another hideous makeover and I end up walking around looking like a clown because she's not there to tell me it looks awful and provide babywipes. What happens when people are difficult and I miss her and God feels distant? Who do I turn to?

When will her laugh merge with and eventually be replaced by another? Is it possible for me to wakeup from this awful, extended nightmare? Why can't I rush to her? Why won't she reply to my texts? Why can't I walk into reception and see her spinning around on the swivel chair? Why can't I tell her, just once more, how much I love her, how precious she is to me?

I want her to show me her cute, dirty feet with her weird little toes, I want to laugh at the state of her room, the size of her wardrobe, the empty bottles of alcohol in the corner, the old pictures of us in our 'God's Gurlies' hoodies (I want to tease her for spelling girlies wrong!) I want her to be a physical presence in my life, I want her to have more time, more opportunities. I hate that she is frozen in time as a nineteen-year old girl.

Yet her spirit lives on and when I worship God, I know she is doing the same. I know she is singing at the top of her lungs to the Hillsong classics, everything she is she has surrendered, her hands raised in adoration. I know that when I worship I will feel connected to her once more.

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