Eight, as in eight months.
Yes, I still count in months.
No, I don't know how long that will continue.
But today's remembrance was not of the mournful, sad reflective kind. It was a note in the morning that it was so. And then we had sex, because we knew it would be our only chance, with my mother staying the night. Bed and floor are too creaky, and while she sleeps like the dead, it's just too uncomfortable to contemplate.
Then an opk was smilingly positive, and I had to shower, then off to Discount Tire to repair the tire that went flat in the span of 4 minutes while driving on the highway yesterday. Then to Target, cat litter and pregnancy tests on the list. Pick up lunch and home again and then some straigtening for my mom.
I spent the time in between writing. This new story is absorbing me, I dream it. It's frippery, mind - a fluffy fanfiction, not characters or even a story themed solely of my imagination (but then, neither was that the case for Shakespeare and my self-esteem is restored). But I'm writing again. And it's good. Nearly 15,000 words now, debating whether or not chapter 3 should be split into two chapters. Not yet though.
Mom brought Amber, who is to become ours if things go well. That meant preparing for her and watching her sniff around with Barney following, his fascination with her entertaining and clear. The dogs barking, Amber is unsure how she feels and seekd refuge in a closet or under the bed. Chatting, dinner ordered, a chat online with a friend arrived safely in the States afterall, only a week late. We watch a movie and the day is quickly drawing to a close.
I knew what it was. I remembered. And then. . . I went on with life. Because this weekend was not constructed to allow us to stop and mourn for more than a moment.
And that's good. Too much thinking and I wonder strange thoughts - whether ovulating on this day, of all the days possible is a sign. I still believe in signs, I see. The loss is not acute any longer, most of the time. It still has the power to sneak up and bring me to my knees. But not today.
Because today there is a disgruntled cat unsure of her surroundings, and time to spend with my beloved mother, and the Spurs play a big game tomorrow, and there are chocolate chip cookies, and snuggly dogs and kitten with catnip mice, and a story calling seductively to me to be crafted and written down.
And so only a moment or two to remember and say to presence at my side, 'Gabe, darling. I love you. I miss you still. You would have liked Amber, I think. And it was a beautiful day, darling. Love love love you.' then on to the next thing.