Etched

"I really don't get why you insist on going to the graveyard every single day of your life. You aren't even Catholic, and it's not even November if you were! Geez, give it a break, will you? Let her rest in peace, ok?"

Amanda's husband might as well have been talking to the wall because she was concentrating on the type of shoes to wear in the weather and had effectively "tuned" him out with her focus on task.

At first, Ed could understand the need for the visits to the cemetery to spend time with his departed, beautiful daughter. In fact, he brought flowers there on her birthday. It was strange not to see her smile on the day she would have turned seventeen. But seeing a cold, concrete reminder, no matter how nice the words etched in that made it hers...well, it didn't bring her back.

She had died way before her time and he was more than a little upset with God because of it. But now, because his wife insisted on this ritual some fourteen months later, he was becoming more agitated and resentful towards her instead of with the Man Upstairs.

Amanda didn't have the energy to go on with everyday life just yet. The more she tried, the harder it became. She knew Ed needed her attention, but her heart was void and words were non-existent. All she could muster was a nod, a weak smile, and a perfunctory kiss on the cheek as she left the house each day.

Ed busied himself with his newspaper, cleaning up the breakfast coffee cups, and mentally planned his day ahead. They had retired early, being blessed with his financial acumen that made life easier for his family. Their youngest child had come as a complete wonderful surprise, a change of life baby that at first was a bit embarrassing, but then gave life a renewed meaning and brought tremendous joy.

It was true that part of each day, when Amanda trotted off to the grave, Ed found time to sit on his daughter's bed and look around at reminders of the woman she would never become, the bride he wouldn't walk down the aisle, and the grandparent that wouldn't look into the face of the babies she'd never carry. Amanda had not been in the room at all. She insisted she couldn't.

But as he walked out of the empty room that smelled of lavender and vanilla candles, he closed the door and took on the routine that Amanda apparently was unable to perform anymore. (Grocery shopping was a new one for him.) Their friends had become "his" friends. They often met for lunches and that sustained him. Their conversations centered on anything but grief and the absence of his daughter...a welcomed distraction.

Amanda had tried to return to normalcy after the funeral, after the well-wishers left, and each of the "thank you for the thoughtfulness" cards had been extended. But as she stepped out in her attempts, overwhelming memories flooded in like sonic-boom daggers on every corner and crevice where she stepped, so she decided to retreat.

Going to the grave was the only place she found any kind of quiet or peace. It was her solace. It seemed to be the only place she could still connect with her child. She felt whole there, somehow. And yes, she wanted to crawl in beside her, to hold her sweet body tightly back to life. Instead, she just touched the etched name of her precious child with her fingers...it was the closest she could come.

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Reference:

https://www.reddit.com/r/offmychest/comments/12mtdyn/i_dont_see_the_importance_of_visiting_my_familys/