I am used to the occasional innocuous question, such as “How many children do you have?” I start. Stumble. Never answer the question the way I would like.
Grief is like the rain. Soft. Hard. Warm. Cold. Sometimes torrential and unrelenting. Sometimes so furious that we cannot see through the downpour.
Now I look at it, and remember that trip. I see all of the photos of our smiling faces and I am juxtaposed with happiness, and now pain as I look at my figure, knowing I was pregnant. I can never erase that aspect from the pictures.