Yesterday, it was 175 weeks since my daughter died in Samoa. What does that mean, you may ask?
Well, 175 weeks is almost three and a half years. It is 175 weeks of counting time; of counting the weeks since her death; of trying to work out how many more weeks there will be in this life.
175 weeks means that Clea did not begin Year 5 yesterday with all her friends. It means she has not grown tall and slim like her friends have done. It means she has not grown adult teeth which has changed the shape of her mouth slightly. It means she has not asked me for an iPod touch or any other such technology.
175 weeks means that her brothers have continued their lives without her but have continued to wish her good night and to talk about her as though their big sister is still with them. It means that yesterday they began Year 3 without her support and hand-me-downs.
175 weeks means that her father and I have had to continue our lives in pain and torment unable to deal with the everyday lives of others. It is 175 weeks of wishing for a different 29 September 2009.
It is 175 weeks without her laughter, happiness and love.
175 weeks is a very long time. It is also a reminder of the very, very long number of weeks that are yet to come.
Miss you Chickie.