I remember when I first started talking about you. It was tentative at first, testing the waters of society. I needed to know how deeply I was going to have to grow to protect you.
In one of my earliest conversations, my friend said something along the lines of, “Of course–there’s something so special about children; if you want to be a mother, then go forth and do.”
She also told me about the wonder she felt as her daughter was growing up, as if she was learning to marvel at the universe all over again, too.
I thought about this moment a lot when I was pregnant with you. I wanted to give you everything. I yearned to see that wonder in your eyes.
I think about that moment a lot now, and I think until today, I had just assumed it would never be. But it occurred to me, sitting in group this everything, that if I’m still living, why can’t I find that wonder for you? Why can’t I find joy and amazement in the beauty that is left in my world?
And then we were getting up to leave, and everyone hugged me and acknowledged that it was my last day. And I just felt really loved then, and I felt so much love for you. And it was like instant confirmation that there are still good things, and people who will remember your name. And I still miss you, and I also know that I’m not alone.
I love you.