Inside, I'm 4.

Such a ubiquitous image - The Scream. A standard at all the cut price poster sales happening on campus when I was a student. One of those pictures seen so commonly that they are never truly noticed. I recognise it, of course, but have never paid much attention to it; except to feel a slight unease. Now through my dead baby lens I perceive it differently. If I didn't have Edvard Munch's word that this is "the enormous, infinite scream of nature”, I'd have said it was a babylost parent. It's certainly how I feel on the inside - the swirling, garish colours and the pain from too much noise.

Seven months out my veneer is pretty good - my smile doesn't always reach my eyes but most passing acquaintances would probably think I'm healing up, doing okay. To some extent, that's true - I can see the path I'm walking. I can see how far I've come. Unlike my acquaintances, I can see how far there is still to go - the journey towards accepting my daughter's absence is lifelong. No wonder I'm screaming on the inside.

My 4 year old daughter doesn't scream on the inside. She's a heart-on-her-sleeve kinda gal and screaming, when required, is very definitely something to share with the world at large. There is generally no ambiguity about L.'s emotions. Her giggles seem to come from her toes, her empathy is astounding, her hugs are huge and effortlessly healing and her rages are absolute. In the aftermath of a particularly thorough meltdown at church this morning, I found myself deeply envious of her. Yes, her behaviour was unacceptable this morning and embarrassing - but only to her daddy and I. She felt unhappy - and that unhappiness found expression. No repression here!

I have learned so much from the way she grieves. I hate that she does. I hate that her brother does. It is a perpetual source of guilt that my inability to bring home their baby sister has permanently marked my children. But, as seems to be the way with children, her grief is public ("Our baby died you know. We're very sad.") and seamlessly integrated into her day to day life ("I would have shared my toys with Emma, mama. I miss her. Can I have some juice?) I'm the grown up so it's not acceptable to the world at large that I show my grief, that sometimes I still slump on the kitchen floor and keen with the hurt and longing I feel for my baby girl. Inside, it's a different story. Inside, I'm screaming. Inside, I'm 4.