Please say she's coming with ...

Words and thoughts float around in the darkness.  They fly about my head like butterflies flitting in and out of my concious thoughts.  My pillow is damp again.  So is D's shoulder.  I've been packing up our lives today and yesterday and all week, wrapping each of our memories and possessions in newsprint from the spring.  The spring is when she left me.  Coincidental?  Maybe.  But perhaps not.  I've been on edge all day, brewing a sort of bitter sadness with simmering anger at the universe.  My patience is thin.  Snippy.  It's hard to keep all the emotions beneath the surface.  I packed and kept discovering little reminders that had been stashed away out of sight.  Formula and baby food, newborn sized baby bottles, pictures of her, grief brochures and perinatal loss pamphlets have been in and out of my hands all day.  They get to move with us but she isn't, well, she is, but not how she should be. 
Sure her bear will come and her pictures, her memory box and blanket, her hand and feet impressions, and her ashes will all come.  Poor substitutes for a baby. 
I get to pack up and leave the only house she will ever have called home.   I know it seems like a silly question, like a question devised from a tired over-imaginative mind, but she will be coming with us, right?  My heart breaks and more tears, the size of dimes, splash on my pillow.