It’s almost bedtime in the Rose house. Just as I was getting up to remove the multitude of throw pillows from the bed, I noticed my husband was listening to “Fly by Night” by Rush in his office. I stopped for a moment and listened, amused by his random choice in music.
“If Aria were here, I bet the sound of Brian’s music wouldn’t feel so silent.”
The thought raced through my mind like a runaway train. I had been so prepared for a house filled with baby cries and screeches. From the moment I learned I was pregnant, I happily dreamed of a home filled with the sounds of a brand new human. But from the moment we returned home, without our daughter in tow, the silence in this house has been deafening. I’ve tried to play music to drown it out, or keep the tv on in the background, but most of the time the silence continues to hang over me.
I would do anything to hear my sweet girl cry. When she was born, her lungs were far too damaged to manage even a tiny whimper. I wanted so badly to hear her roar as she entered the world. It’s one of the many items on my endless list of things I wish had been different for Aria.
I know eventually, the awkwardness of this silence will fade. I’m quite looking forward to that day. But as we often say in regards to figuring out this new life as bereaved parents, one little Aria step at a time.