Missing Peace

Sunday, September 25, 2011

To you, my lovely baby,

Yesterday was a particularly difficult day.
I wish I could have just one dream of you- just one little image of your face, animated in life. A smile would be nice- but I’m getting ahead of myself. I would just like to see you.
I read a line in a book. A woman was writing about visiting her infant daughter’s grave. She said that she knew her daughter wasn’t in the ground, wasn’t in that grave, but:
“it’s just that her knees are, and I would have loved to kiss them after she fell.”
How I miss the physical presence of you, daughter of mine.
I miss sticky fingers.
I miss gum in your hair.
I miss make-up all over your face, because you have gone through my pocket-book….
I miss it all.
I miss all of what we could have been, and all of what we would have been- all that we never will be.
I want your hair, tangled after you’ve showered. I imagine you sitting impatiently while I run a comb through it trying to get the knots out. It’s curly coarse hair, like your dad’s. Before you go to bed, I put it into little pig-tails. They’re tiny- because you are just a baby. You haven’t gotten enough hair in yet for a real braid. You would probably pull out anything I put into your hair. That’s just what babies do.
Your brother asked today, how old you would be. He is interested in knowing what you would be if you were alive. I try to explain to him, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a baby that small in the house. I imagine you pulling yourself up a bit. Not walking or really even standing. There would be a lot of plopping on your behind right now. I don’t think he would be quite so entranced by you, if you were here.
I miss you. I miss the feel of you. I miss your breath on my cheek. I miss your tiny hand wrapped around my finger.
I miss you with tubes and wires, because then you were pink and healthy looking. There was possibility and chance. There was a future where you came home in that memory.
I miss you without them, because then you were in my arms, and I knew the struggle was almost over. I knew that you were going home, in that memory.
I miss fairy princess dresses.
I went to a wedding. The bride and groom had invited children, and had asked all of the little girls to dress in princess dresses. How difficult it was to spend the evening with so many small birds running around in their tiny little ball gowns. I tried to be happy. It didn’t work.
You were missing.
It wasn’t fair.
I miss you falling asleep on dad’s chest. I miss you holding his crooked pinky finger.
I miss the second chance we had in you.
I miss your joy, and your arguing with your brothers, and your girl’s night with your sister.
I miss ballet class.
Yesterday was an awful day for missing.
I miss your messiness and thumb-sucking, drooling, teething, crying in the middle of the night, getting into everything you’re not supposed to be getting into, naughtiness. All of it.
I wish you would come back. Just for a second.
I sit with my eyes closed, and I imagine that you are right next to me. I know that it is a test of my faith- if I open my eyes, you will disappear. But if I keep them closed, you will stay right there for as long as I’d like. I sit quietly, straining to hear your tiny breath near me.
What I wouldn’t give to hear you say “mama” just one time. I wouldn’t even care that you said “dada” first. Just something.
I miss mud puddles and rain boots, now that fall is here.
I miss you, my lovely baby girl.
I miss your forehead and your knees, and everything in between.
I miss you with me, and everything we may have been together.
I could keep going on, because there are a million and one things I miss about you. So I’ll end this now.
Still missing you.

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