To me, it's the stillness when someone dies.
This morning I read, "Yesterday I was excited about Eva’s new high chair and today there is no Eva to sit in it," and at first I thought it was figurative speech. I thought, Tess is taking Eva somewhere where high chair can't go and so they've left the chair at home. Maybe some new surprising adventure for these two? I could so easily picture it, someone getting in touch with Tess and offering to take them on a holiday somewhere. Or something.
But as I was thinking it, I was also reading along with the realisation that... no, it hadn't been figurative speech. Eva's died and will no longer sit in her high chair.
The room grew quiet. I read the sentence again, just to make sure, then lifted my eyes for a moment, then read again and then I looked down at my breastfeeding daughter and felt my eyes fill with tears.
I walked in the streets of Addington this morning and felt that familiar stillness surround me. She's not here. She was here on Wednesday, but she's not here today any more.
I remember that same stillness from when my father died. "Your father has died," my mom said to me, and at first I looked at her and asked, "Whose father?" - "Your father, Viktor. Your father has died."
I remember standing there and the room growing quiet. And then the stillness as I headed out to ride on my bike, how my body felt disconnected from the world around me somehow.
And now this morning there was this quiet stillness for a little girl I have never even held, only read about.
Good night, Eva. Rest well.
I am glad that Tess has had the opportunity to have Eva in her life. I am also glad that Eva has had Tess as her mother. I think they have both been blessed to have each other.
I am so sorry, Tess...