In the many phases that are grief I have discovered I no longer stutter over is. Waverly was. It is becoming easier for the word was to float off my tongue with all of its heaviness. I still flinch when I hear it, but it is part of my vocabulary.
I no longer confuse her name with Oliver's or Watson's. It isn't said as often and is spoken more reverently, memorialized. I speak to her often. Each morning I enter her room and open her blinds, greeting her with a simple quip. Her room is still her room, even though our desk is now there and most of her furniture is gone. Her name is still emblazoned on the wall in bright pink. Her favorite toys are displayed on her bookshelf.
Instead of the content deluge of reminders that she is no longer here, there are moments. Today I caught a glimpse of one of her princess dolls that I keep in the diaper bag. Oliver likes to hold them, so I keep one next to his football. All of a sudden the emotions tumbled forth and I ached to pass that princess back to her soft little hands.