Taking Space

I walk into her room to say goodnight. The room of my third, then my first and now my second daughter. Although I never saw my third daughter sleeping the way I saw my other daughters sleeping.

So I walk in, with my full attention focused on my second daughter. Suddenly there is that smell again. A familiar scent that brings up expectant joy, a deep longing. I feel tears in my eyes and I am momentarily overwhelmed by all kinds of feelings that demand attention at the same time. I want to inhale this scent deeply, absorb it completely. Proof that she existed. Exists. Susan Amanda.

But I stand there in front of my beloved second daughter. I want to give her attention and wish her a good night and just be together with her. I pull myself together and sit with her, hug her and pray for her and then I walk downstairs and tell my Love that I smelled her again. He looks with understanding. He recognizes the feeling. “Will you take some space for it?” he asks and I look at him as my thoughts spin.

I wrote a book about this. In the interview I gave about it, I emphasized it: you have to take space for it. You just have to feel the feelings you have every now and then, so that you can do something with them. But still I don’t really know how to do that, it makes me feel uncomfortable and unwilling and I’m tempted to go to my usual ways of dealing with it: Watch a movie. Add a glass of wine. But because it’s Lent, we don’t drink, which more or less forces me to better make room for it.

I want to smell the scent, dive into my memories, experience again what it was like with her.
At the same time I want to ignore, no more pondering, the time of crying is over.
Or should be over, It’s not there that often anymore, but now it is.

Grieving continues to be complex, I think. I wrote a book about it and somehow hoped that that would be the end of it. My sorrow is over. But now that I have written the book in Dutch and then also in English, there still is that sadness that no longer reappears constantly but sometimes violently. The girl who is no longer here is still missed. I miss her.

This month it’s been four years since we found out that she had died and we were full of love we couldn’t get rid of. We had to learn to live with loss. I now understand better how that works for me and what I need. But you have to make room for that (in my case that means writing).

First published in Dutch on March 12, 2021

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