I'm not over it yet.
I'm missing Evan so much today that my chest physically aches. I feel hollow and empty, just like I felt three years ago on the worst night of my life. I was hemorrhaging blood all over the emergency room. No heartbeat on the monitor meant I could have morphine, more for the broken heart than the contractions that were coming every three minutes in horribly painful waves. Evan was dead and they'd pull him from my body almost immediately to prevent more blood loss.
And I'm not over it. I'm not over it.
He made me a mother. My entire existence changed the day he began existing. And now I continue to exist in his absence, remembering that blob on a screen and what little I knew about him: his blurry foot, his beating heart, his name. Evan.
It's all we have of him.
One day I hope I will approach this anniversary and it won't feel like my chest cavity is full of razor blades, but apparently that's not today. One day, maybe. But I'm not over it yet.