No matter how much I believe that my grief is silly or my grief is selfish or my grief is self-indulgent, my grief doesn't care. I can squash it down for a while, or tuck it away in a corner, or rub it raw with my joys, or scrub it clean and sparkly, or run far away from it, but for some reason I can never seem to rid myself of it, not completely.
I find it hard to believe at first because I don't feel any different. But then days go by and I begin to feel a buzz around my edges. I realize that I, through no conscious effort of my own, am slowly building another person. My husband and I compare bellies in the mirror every night. I didn't think it was possible, but I enjoy being pregnant.