It’s been “one of those days”.  One where you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor crying.  One where you flee your house after finding a burp cloth hidden away under the couch cushions.  At one point today, I was sitting out back staring at the little pumpkin I’d pulled from the vine growing in the yard.  It made me think about the one pumpkin that grew from the same container when I first found out I was pregnant with Zoey.  The one I thought was a sign from my dad. And I smiled. And then I cried.  Because everything here at this house is like that– two sides to every memory.  Every moment of light followed by a dark shadow.  Every happy moment halted by that familiar lump in your throat.

The chair we slept in every night nestled together along with Cece the cat is the same chair I held her the last night.  The night where I didn’t sleep because I didn’t want to wake up to find her gone.  The night I thought she took her last breath only to calm her and feel her relax and exhale another breath against my skin.

The couch where I’d lay her wrapped in her hooded kitty towel after bath time so I could dry her off and where I kissed her cheek over and over until she turned and licked me is the same couch where I held her as her heart stopped beating.

The driveway we pulled into on our way home from the hospital and I told my baby girl that she was home. Where Joe took our picture next to the balloons and sign announcing “It’s a Girl!”.  It’s the same driveway where I kissed her the last time and placed her in the front seat of the car that would take her away from me for the last time.  Where Joe had to pick me up off the ground and help me into the house.

Everything here is where she was. I’ve thought about moving– packing up her things, taking her picture down from the mantel and starting over somewhere else.  But this place where she died and where we feel the overwhelming emptiness is also where she lived.