I caught a glimpse of my tattoo in the mirror the other day. The days move so quickly lately, sometimes I forget it’s there. Sometimes I miss the burning underneath my skin, how it felt when everything was new.
Someone asked me about you the other day. I realized you would be two and a half years old. I wonder what it would be like to see you running around with your sister. She is already so much bigger than you.
I caught a glimpse of my tattoo the other day, and suddenly your feet seemed so small to me. And this is weird, because when I was getting ready for it, they seemed quite enormous. You were 9 pounds. And I don’t know how my perspective has changed.
It’s been months since I’ve written to you, and I guess this means that you are integrated. You’re a name I mention in meeting but not in parting. Somebody asked me your sister’s name today, but they didn’t ask about you. It’s a silence I remember. Not one, but two.
I caught a glimpse of your tattoo the other day, and I wonder if this means I’ve somehow forgotten? It’s not as fresh anymore. I no longer live in tears. Does that mean I don’t miss you?
Or is it that you still live here–in my anger at your absence, in the catch of my breath when I meet someone new. Because this is where I’m living. And sometimes it just sucks. And I see your tattoo, and I reach for your necklace. And this is how I mother you. These few things I have of you.
I don’t know how not to miss you.
Happy New Year my love.
I love you.