My heart hurts.
How did I get here, how the hell? Pan left, close on the steeple of the church. How did I get here, how the hell? Christmas - Christmas eve last year.
Mark Cohen - RENT
Christmas eve, and an anniversary I'd rather forget. A year ago today was one of the worst days of my life. Some of you may remember why from reading my journal that day.
On Christmas eve last year, Quillamina died. One year later, it still hurts just as much. I still wonder if somehow, it was my fault, if I did something to cause whatever it was that took her. It's probably a stupid thing to think, but I just can't help wondering, what if. I keep wondering if there was anything I could have done differently that would have prevented it.
Mostly, I wonder how to keep my heart from breaking all over again. It hasn't fully healed, and probably never will; it might look okay, but there are cracks running through it, little fault lines that, with enough pressure, could shatter it and leave me having to put the pieces back together again, and wonder how I ever managed it last time.
Except I didn't, not really. I've cried so many times since then; I'm crying now. I still have her favourite blanket, and I bury my face in it when it all becomes too much to bear.
That happens a lot. There are no words for how much I miss her. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, and naysayers can keep their opinions to themselves and their traps shut: She was my baby. I was her mother. The day she died, I lost a child, and I will never be the same again.
Today, for me, will be full of tears, pain, and the memory of heartbreak. Today, no amount of happy memories will be enough.
Today, I remember and I cry; I grieve. And most of all, as I feel my heart begin to break again, today I will wish to hold her just one more time, and wonder if she is gone because I wasn't good enough.
Nine hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, Nine hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear. Nine hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In nine hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, How do you measure a year in the life?
How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love. Seasons of love.















