When Hello Means Goodbye

Standing in the kitchen as Moctar prepared for work and Henna ran around the living room and back into the kitchen, not wanting to be left alone downstairs, my eyes must have glazed over. Moctar asked me what I was thinking of. I didn't really respond because I knew that would make the tears spill. I simply said, "you know what I'm thinking about." "Tell me," he pleaded...

"All I see is his face..." My love smiled at me and wrapped me in his arms. Sometimes it feels like I'm in a dream. Phantom movements in my belly and before I know it, my hand moves to my stomach, to be met with nothing other than silence.

I both look forward to and dread Moctar leaving for work in just minutes. I feel bad crying in front of him because after having lived in Niger for two years, I know that tears are extremely rarely expressed. Luckily, my man understands me and all my cultural idiosyncrasies. He doesn't make me feel bad for crying in front of him, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. When he's gone I have more time to think, to process, and to cry openly. It comes in waves... I hear a line in a song, see an image on the television, glance at a photo, or just simply watch Henna and I can go from a single tear, to weeping, to laughing and smiling. I bet some people feel as if they are going insane.

I've been slowly paging through the book "When Hello Means Goodbye" that the hospital provided me. I can't handle large chunks of it because it's so personal. It's full of poems, stories, quotes and other anecdotes. The one I read today I will end this blog with:

"May you find comfort in knowing that love was all your baby ever knew..."