My heart, my soul are so tired of here. This house is stained with memories of her.

If I get thinking too hard, I can remember us as a family at the kitchen table. It was August 29, 2012.

We have just come home from the hospital, and she is still breathing, one slow breath at a time. Her skin is ashen, but her breath tells me she still wants to be alive, with me. I sit on the couch, and Jack greets his little sister for what would be the very last time.

I turn around and my dear friend Liz walks in with her arms full of a warm, hearty dinner to feed the eight of us. I can never erase the tender passion that spread across Liz’s face as she met Amelia for the first time, the way her hand covered her mouth and her eyes were wet with tears. I love that girl so dearly.

And then, we eat. We are suddenly at the kitchen table and my mama is sitting across from me, holding Amelia tightly in her arms so I can sneak a bite or two. It clear as day to me, this image of our family. My parents, Tyler’s parents, and our little family of four, sharing one last meal together before it happened.

We feast on lasagna, garlic bread and salad. I distinctly remember how comforting that food was to me, as if it could erase the elephant in the room.

But it persisted, that horrible, dark feeling that death was near. And it came, in its own due time that night, and took my baby away.

Sometimes I can still see death in our bedroom. Just days after she died, I had to switch Tyler sides of the bed; I have been haunted by memories of what had happened right there. I still have trouble sitting on a certain spot of the couch, because of all that happened right there. I’ve redecorated, but some things still persist and insist on taunting you.

It’s been a good thing that this house reminds me of her, but it’s time to part ways. I’m taking an old doorknob with me to remember it happened, but finally, somewhat begrudgingly, leaving these memories behind.