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The week before you died I accidentally burned my forearm on my curling wand. It had been the second time in a month I’d done so. You had been at my feet playing as I curled my hair, and I kept getting distracted by trying to keep you contained. The burned welts lasted months.

Over the past three years the scars from each have faded considerably, the first is actually now gone completely. The second is faint, barely there at all. I cried the day I realized that the first scar had disappeared. I check the second constantly, terrified to feel the emotion I know will consume me when I one day look and it too, is no longer there.

I attached myself to these scars, because in some strange and probably unhealthy way, I have connected them to you. Grief is confusing, consuming, complex. It leaves you clinging to tiny moments, mundane items, even unremarkable pieces of yourself. The things that would otherwise be forgettable, but become a sentiment in response to our trauma.

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