I am not myself any longer.  I have changed.  I have told myself and others these words too many times to count.  I have said them in my head, as if to confirm what I already know.  But I didn't realize that calling myself changed is too weak, too inadequate. 


I am not just changed.  Part of me is dead.


And realizing that in the throes of remembering my lost daughter made so much sense, it was almost a relief.  Yes, part of me is dead; that explains the numbness I feel.  I could lay there, my face stiff and cold, and hours could pass without my knowledge. 


And then there is the other half of my heart.  If I am dead for Beatrice, then I am also alive for Imogen. 


It's easy to be in one side or the other.  I can relive every precious moment with Beatrice, weeping for her and all that she lost.  I can lie in bed, detached from myself and the world around me, with no thought but the flickering images of that day back in October.  But I can also smile at Imogen and feel the happiness radiate from her joyful face.  I can hold her, keeping her solid little frame next to me as tightly as possible, savoring each breath I feel her take.


It's easy to be in one side or the other.  It's the line between my death and my life that troubles me, for how can I ever reconcile the two?  How could they ever fit together?  There is no bridge, yet the two sides of my heart shift and grind against the other, one or the other rising to a pinnacle of emotion, leaving me never knowing whether I will be in death or in life from moment to moment.


This line, this rift in my heart, dulls what was once a happy life, blurring the edges of everything sweet and joyful, mixing with it agony and despair. 


Yes, I am alive.  But part of me is dead.