Magic Didn't Last

Yesterday was April 14th.  For the second year in a row, I’ve found that the lead-up to this date - the anniversary of Sofia's death - is much harder than the day itself. There is a phantom weight to the first two weeks of April. My body seems to remember the timeline before my mind even acknowledges it. It is a slow, heavy retracing of steps—a return to the vigil. Last year, I thought this "anticipatory grief" might be a fluke of the first anniversary. Now I see it for what it is: the mind’s way of traveling back to those final moments to make sense of a finality I wasn't ready for at the time. The Haze of the Protector When I look back at those last days in the hospital, I don’t see sterile walls or clinical bustle. I see a soft glow. I remember an utter, heavy stillness that felt like it shielded us from the rest of the world. In those moments, I wasn't "grieving" yet. I was a protector. My entire world had narrowed down to one goal: providing Sofia a...