12 Years Ago

I held her 12 years ago.

That one one-sided embrace is all I get this lifetime.

I held her 12 years ago, in complete shock.

Is this one-sided embrace all I get this lifetime?

I kissed her 12 years ago.

The tiny kiss planted on extra rosy lips must sustain me forever.

I kissed her 12 years ago, shaking uncontrollably.

Why are her lips that deep shade of red?

I understood love 12 years ago

Holding her, wrapped up and perfect, I knew I’d die for her.

I understood love 12 years ago, and also loss.

Who the fuck do I need to negotiate with to get her back?

I was born a mother 12 years ago.

A childless mother whose arms ached.

She made me a mother 12 years ago, tear-streaked face.

How do I honour her in everything that I do?

I last saw her 12 years ago.

One last stolen moment on a couch in a funeral home.

I feel her in everything I do, and everything I’ve created.

Who would she look like her sister and act like her mama?

!2 years is a long time to be without something, to feel like it might just be around the next bend, slightly out of reach but, 12 years is just the beginning, we are just warming up.

In 12 years, we’ve made hospital changes, started a conversation about stillbirth, held hands with an entire community of people who felt like they were in the dark.  I’ve put it out there, I’ve put you out there, unapologetically. 

We’ve made noise, haven’t we?

Let’s keep making noise - I’ll sing extra loud tonight right before I blow out your candles for you.

Happy 12th birthday, Penelope.

You are loved and never forgotten.

Heaviness

There’s a heaviness that creeps in this time of year.  I don’t even realize it’s heavy until it fully settles on my chest, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

I don’t even realize it’s heavy, or stop long enough to feels it’s heaviness, until you ask me, pointedly, how I’m doing.  I know what you are looking for, your question, ‘How are you doing?’ cuts through the bullshit of the day-to-day.  Your question cuts right through me.  So, I breathe.  And, after I breathe, allowing the heaviness to fill me, I tell you about it; I describe it to you, hearing it for the first time this year myself.

If I breathe before I answer, I can feel it all. And, If I sit still for long enough, I remember. 

I remember the pink nightgown I wore the morning you passed.  I was sweeping our apartment at 38 weeks and 2 days.  He made a video of me sweeping that morning and I laughed on camera in my pink nighty.  That nightgown, now folded, sits in a bin with a green maxi dress, and an all-black outfit.  These items, I will never part with, but I will certainly never wear again.  That nighty, worn by a woman I can’t even remember.  I’d never wear that nighty now; I’m a tank-top-and-thong-to-bed girl now.  This pink knee-length nighty represents a woman that I don’t know anymore.  Tucked nicely into a plastic bin it sits, along with my naïveté.

Busting at full-term, I slipped off the nighty and into a green maxi dress, perfect for running errands in late September.  I felt you kick in the parking lot at the Superstore.  I remember that moment, standing in the parking lot, saying hello to you, only because I was asked, later that evening to recall it.  That moment, like so many in the previous months, stopped me for a moment, but wasn’t anything to write home about.  You kicked, I acknowledged, and into the grocery store I went.  It wasn’t until I was asked, ‘When was the last time that you felt her move?’ later at the hospital that the moment became forever engraved into my mind.  That kick, the way I cupped the lower right side of my belly while standing in the parking lot, will never dissolve into the day-to-day. 

You, sweet girl, will never dissolve into the day-to-day.  Try as I might to busy myself every September, the moment I stop to breathe, I feel you, and the moment I steady myself, I remember.

Today, I cry for you.

Tomorrow, I celebrate you.

Every day, Mama loves you.

4am

It seems to be 4am when my mind turns on and with it, everything floods in. I begin to replay conversations I’ll never get back; I’ll never have the opportunity for my witty comeback, thought of only after we’d hung up.   I scroll through the pictures that hurt too much to view during the day. I watch a video of myself sweeping, busting at 38 weeks and 2 days pregnant.  I look over the budget and wonder if the kids are going to get to go away to school, if braces are going to break the bank, and dream of a vacation home. I sit up straight, remember the laundry that, many hours earlier, I placed in the wash.  I vow to do better today, to be the mom that they need.  I promise myself that I will yell less.

I jot down sentences into Notepad that have been turning in my head.  Words roll off my tongue and onto the screen.  I think about the song that touched my heart earlier, look up the lyrics, send the song out to those who will appreciate it like I do.  Into the bathroom I move, wash the day before from my face.  I should have done this before I fell asleep, I’ve always been horrible at washing my face before bed.  I vow to be better tomorrow. I sneak down the stairs, I don’t drink water often, but I know I should drink more.  It’s good for me, better than coffee.  I down a glass and vow to drink more of it when the sun is up too.  I head into each bedroom, all three of them, and kiss them on the forehead and marvel at what we have created.  It seems to be 4am when I remember that there should be 4 bedrooms, this thought hits me hardest at 4am.