Constant.

"...These walls have seen my happy,

But most of all they've seen me torn....

They've had a front row seat to the breaking of my heart."

                                                   -Chris August:: 7x70

 Here it is. What's left of, what once was, Savannah's nursery. By what's left I'm referencing four walls, a closet, a window, a door... and an empty shelf. Once upon a time this room was vibrant and full of anticipated life. Now we have a constant reminder of unavoidable mortality.

Let's me try to portray life with a dead infant. It is a slow process. Healing I mean. Because after the funeral, when family and friends "heal" from the missing child, the parents have something family and friends don't. The family and friends who cry, and remember our baby periodically when something "reminds" them, don't have the constant.

The walls we call home. The home... the bedroom... the hallway of that child. Savannah never came home. But that doesn't mean home wasn't prepared for her. Each morning I walk past a quiet room. Each afternoon the same quiet, calm, hauntingly still feeling pulls at me as I go about my day. Every night, as the light leaves the sky, the same room fills with a deep darkness. No light shines there. An unused nursery. Death has taken over beige carpet and drywall. We reside in the same house that death has visited... Everyday.... Our reminders are never ending.

It's a constant.

Yes, these walls have had a front row seat

to the breaking of my heart.