The azaleas are in full bloom on our balcony again. I distinctly remember this time last year—weighed down with grief, lying limp and listless in bed—when their explosion of cheerful beauty seemed to mock me in my grief, their bright colour a stark counterpoint to the overwhelming darkness within.
A few weeks after Anastasia died, Josh tried to tell me about what psychologists have discovered about emotional homeostasis: people who won the lottery experienced a huge spike in their perceived happiness levels, but a short few months later, they perceived themselves to be just as happy as before they had won the lottery. People who had experienced loss… I cut him off before he could finish his (in retrospect, endearing) take on “This too shall pass” to try and comfort me. Sorry, no, not helpful. Can you leave me alone for a while?
But as always, he was right.
A year on, memories of the days and weeks following Anastasia’s death are now indistinct, blurred by the fog of time. Reading what I had written during that time, the grief it describes seems foreign and distant; what was once acute and all-consuming, has now faded into a dull ache of hope and longing. Where the mere thought or mention of Anastasia used to trigger uncontrollable waterworks, the moments when she’s remembered now are like a candle flame. It still burns if held too closely, for too long; but carefully, tenderly cradled, there’s warmth and light in the darkness.
Surprisingly, it is Elsie who has been instrumental in holding onto her as a part of our family. Where Josh and I are wary of inviting grief into our conversations, she is buoyed by a child’s carefree innocence to speak what adults find taboo.
“Mummy, why did Anastasia have to die? I wish she was still here.”
“Can I go to heaven to visit Anastasia? Is heaven very far? Maybe we can go on an aeroplane to visit her!”
It is Elsie, who gives voice to the unspoken hopes and longings of my soul; who comforts me and makes me both laugh and cry like no one else can.
“Mummy, can you give me a real baby? A real baby who will grow bigger and bigger and who I can play with and help look after?”
“It’s okay mummy. Your Anastasia died, but when I grow up I’ll have a baby and call her Anastasia and give her to you.”
It is Elsie, who acknowledges and remembers her as a real and tangible member of our family.
“I’m a big sister too! Anastasia’s my younger sister, even though she died. Maybe after I turn 100, I can go to heaven to see her!”
“When I grow up, I want to have two babies. Two baby girls. Just like you mummy, you have two precious daughters, me and Anastasia.”
In the past week, Elsie has been counting down to Anastasia’s birth day.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, then it’s Anastasia’s birthday! Mummy, will you buy a cake for Anastasia? Can I help her eat her cake?”
She’s been reminding us every day, gravely concerned that she will miss an opportunity to eat cake. Her concerns might be entirely misplaced—there will definitely be cake tomorrow—but I am glad for how she has normalised a day I had been dreading.
A year ago, Anastasia died. A year on, as I gaze at the blooming azaleas, I no longer resent their joy and beauty. I am glad that they will always remind me of Anastasia, of the fleeting joy and beauty she brought into our lives, before her earthly body withered away. It has already been a year—a lifetime—but soon, soon, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet, the dead will be raised imperishable, and I shall hold her in my arms again.
