Fork

I sometimes feel that I have to remind myself often that Caden is gone, even though I feel like it is a never-ending thought in my mind.  While making dinner last night, getting the table set and the last preparations in place, I counted out seven forks to place on top of the napkins I'd just put on our placemats.  I had counted six napkins just moments seconds before, but forks, I counted seven.  After the last napkin had a fork on it, I looked at the one in my hand, perplexed.  And it hit me anew-- I had inadvertently counted one for Caden.  It felt as if I stabbed that fork into my own gut.  I double over and started to cry.  I want there to be a need for seven forks.

I hate having to remind myself that he's gone.  But if I don't, this happens.  "Don't count seven when you get in the car."  "Don't count seven when you're making sure you're all together."  "Don't count seven forks, plates, bowls, etc."  "Don't..."  "Don't..."  "Don't..." Six, not seven.  Six, not seven. Six, never seven. 

It's hard to know how to move on from all of this if I always have to remind myself and remember that it has happened.  It hurts to remember, it hurts to forget.  It's hard to not think about Caden as much, giving more of my thoughts to the kids that are still in my arms, when I have to remind myself about him constantly.  Because it's those times that I do things out of habit that hurt so much when reality becomes starkly obvious: I will never need seven forks again.