It's six months today since Kat was born. From here on out every day that passes makes it closer to years than weeks or months since she was with us. I have a very strange sense of the surreal today. It doesn't seem possible that for six months we have been going about our lives having gone through the experience of burying a child. It doesn't seem possible sometimes that I'm still breathing, eating, talking, sleeping, walking around, feeling sunlight. I've always been a person who thinks in pictures and when I think of the death of a child I see a messy, torn, gaping wound, like the maul marks of a lion or a bear. Something huge and wild, untameable. It's rough and dirty and primal. And no matter how much time passes, no matter if the wound closes over, the scar it leaves will always be a jagged and constant reminder.