I don't understand why it happens.
All I know is it does.
It still does,
and there's nothing I can do about it except try my very best not to succumb to the pain.
I try to walk myself through the day.
Sometimes it helps,
if the sun rose and everything was normal.
Which it was,
today.
I woke up to my son's nose next to mine,
his eyes so close mine couldn't quite focus on their gray.
I scooped him up and we went downstairs
where Peeta had cinnamon toast waiting.
I kissed his lips,
kissed our daughter's head.
She went to school.
I took my son to the woods and we picked berries for a while.
I came home and hung up laundry on the line while he played with acorns in the dirt,
which I was decidedly okay with,
because little boys need things like dirt.
I started making dinner with leftover venison.
Peeta came in with our daughter at his heels like she always is,
delivering fresh bread for dinner and showing me her latest artwork from school
(it's always very good,
probably because she is Peeta's daughter).
We ate,
even laughed a little at the funny things coming out of our babies' mouths.
They are at such a perfect age.
I never want to change them.
I suppose it was these thoughts that sent me downhill.
Going through it like this,
I figure it must be.
Because here I am,
a little past dinnertime,
and I can hear Peeta giving our children their baths,
knowing I am hiding beneath the covers of our bed
watching the shadows on the wall grow lower and lower with the setting sun.
I started to think about change,
and how all I ever want to do is resist it,
and how it's coming for me even if I don't want it to.
That is exactly how I got here.
This doesn't help much,
though,
except to let me know that it was for a reason.
The worst ones are when I don't have one.
Sometimes I just fall;
nothing has to push me.
It is dark when the door opens to our room.
I'm facing the other way,
eyes shut,
drowning in numbness.
I expect a gentle caress against my hip,
a kiss on my cheek,
a weight falling heavy on the other side of the bed,
ready to pull me into his arms and try to whisk away the demons he knows he can do nothing about.
I always struggle trying to figure out whether or not I want him to do this.
I usually settle on yes because I know the outcome will mean fewer nightmares and a shorter span of depression,
but sometimes it is no.
And I don't know why.
So I am about to tell him to go away,
ready to resist his arms when they pull me in,
or turn my face against his kiss,
when a small finger touches my arm.
It is poking at me,
and a gentle whisper comes out.
"Mommy?"
I feel my heart sink.
I hate to have her see me like this,
and Peeta knows it so he usually tries to keep her out,
except for in circumstances where he knows her touch will soothe me.
He must be busy with the baby if he isn't in here, too.
I roll over under the covers and face my daughter,
my baby girl,
whose concern is so prevalent on her little face.
It kills me because I promised myself when she was born
that she would know no worry,
no pain.
Her little life would be childish and pretty and playful.
Instead I dragged her down with me,
to a place no child should ever have to see.
Not anymore,
anyway.
I almost tell her to go back to her daddy,
but her little eyes are so longing for love,
so deep blue with concern,
and yet so filled with life and wonder and beauty
that I have to let her in.
So I open up the comforter,
watch her crawl up onto the bed that is still too big for her
(but not for much longer),
and sweep her into my open arms,
cuddling her close to me.
She still smells vaguely of the sweet baby she once was.
Her hair is combed back and damp and curling,
and her warm breath is nuzzled into my neck,
and her little hands grasp at my arms which hold her so closely.
I breathe her in in all she is,
and with each breath my chest loosens
until it is almost easy again.
We sit there like that for what feels like a long while,
but which I know really is only a moment,
until she loosens herself from me to look into my face.
"Will you sing to me, Mommy?"
she asks in such a small voice.
I almost don't think that I can,
and so it is rusty and scratchy and dusty when my voice first comes out.
But then I start to sing,
softly,
softly,
to her,
a lullaby that my father used to sing to me,
a lullaby I sing to her every night without fail.
I cradle her against my chest,
just like we used to when she was a baby,
so, so small.
I rock her as best I can while still laying down,
and I sing to her.
It is a beautiful song full of love
and quiet night stars
and mountains
and folk.
It is her favorite.
And when I am finished,
I know that if I were okay,
if I were a better mother,
or person,
less depressed,
less dependent on my five-year-old child,
I would scoot her out of bed and down the hall into her own,
telling her goodnight
and sweet dreams.
But I am not that person.
And I cannot let her go.
I need her,
desperately,
and so it is for very selfish reasons,
reasons I wish did not exist but which,
right now,
I can't help,
that I keep her cradled against my body.
The room grows quiet
except for the crickets that chirp through the open window,
but she does not make a peep.
She does not complain.
Instead she curls into me further,
lets me run my hands over her soft dark hair,
whispering small insignificant things like,
"Shhhh, baby," and,
"Go to sleep," into her ear.
I watch her eyes droop and close,
watch the miracle that is her lungs
draw breath and release it,
her chest rising and falling.
I watch her thumb gradually make its way to her mouth in sleep,
and I find myself smiling for the first time tonight.
I lay,
smoothing my hands over her curly hair,
when Peeta cracks open the door,
his look of beloved concern dwindling to accept the small smile that graces his face.
I smile back at him.
He draws closer to the bed and whispers,
"I wondered where she wandered off to."
I nod and look down at her.
There are tears in my eyes when I look back into his blue ones.
"She helped me get better," I say quietly.
He gives me a soft smile and kisses my forehead.
"I know."