Yesterday morning I woke up before dawn to the sound of Waverly. It was a laugh she had that would morph into a cry, especially in the mornings if she was stiff or lonely. I was dreaming and she roused me from sleep. I sat up and for a millisecond thought it was really her; as if the last 14 months were a dream. Oliver was sound asleep and while very similar, they do not sound the same at all. I had the strangest feeling all day. Rationally knowing it was not her, but secretly wishing it were real. However why the cry at the end? Why a reminder of the pain that was?
It was the 18th. Exactly 14 months since she left this earth.
Waverly is becoming a dream. I vividly remember her. I can still smell her when I open her closet and hold some of her favorite dresses or hug a special stuffed animal. I can see her face in photos in nearly every room in our home. I can hear her laugh when I replay a video on my phone. But I no longer call Oliver Waverly. Or Watson Waverly. I don't go into her room expecting to see her bed. When I open up the drawers in Oliver's room, I am no longer surprised to see Ollie's clothing in them.
Many of the minute daily reminders have faded. And I miss that they have faded; I am aware of their absence. The dull ache that occasionally roars to the surface is ever present, always with me.