You think you’re done with something. No sign of it for ages. And then all of a sudden, it comes burbling up, spilling over, a flood. I’m running out of time. I may already be out of time. But there are no do-overs. Doing it again doesn’t make the past not exist. So much pain. So much pain there wasn’t room for love. And now the love is so overwhelming. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. And I can’t let go. I won’t. It’s all I have. It may be painful, but it’s mine. I try to go back into it, relive it but this time change it. Hold her tiny body against me, feel her breathing, and this time I try to enjoy it, adore it. I miss it. I missed it. I missed out on it. I ache for the connection. A connection like that I may never get to try at again. A lost opportunity. Lost to pain and chaos that was my reality. Yes, I know, focus on the now. Connect with her now. I do. Thankfully I can. Much of the time. But it’s not the same. She will never be an infant again. Each day she grows more independent of me, further away. And what could have been is lost. And this well of grief floods me again, and again. I accept it. I know I am mourning still. I bring the past back into sharp clarity. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want it to fade away. Because at least this way I can still go back and hold my baby, and love her, this time.