Things have been crazy busy around the Coconuts household recently. Many new life experiences intertwined with daily routines, leaves us thankful for our blessings while recognizing the tenuous thread that holds our lives together. All too often we forget to see the miracles that comprise our stories; often forgetting that we, ourselves, are such incredible miracles. It takes dramatic events to remind us to open our hearts further and grasp at the pearls of beauty that grow from the banal events of day to day living.
When faced with incredible painful fear for the future, something as simple as your loved ones faces become the ambrosia that we drink in; desperate for one more glance, fearful of our last breath and what that would hold.
Am I the only one that holds this pain? The only person who still feels the sharp stab in my heart and the anguish in the pit of my stomach. The last memory of that precious little life deeply guarded in the farthest reaches of my heart, to be remembered by me, and me alone. I feel that way. I fear I am the only living human who remembers the child that was lost in my womb. The little one who arrived in this world in a rush of blood on the anguished cries of her mother. The one who is not spoken about. Words are truly unnecessary as the pain and regret stain my soul and quietly speak volumes.
I’ve not opened up about the baby. Few know of the circumstances, yet none speak of it. As if to speak of it would mar the beauty of the life we’ve crafted. And yet still, occasionally there is the oft well-meaning comment that states I have two living children – appreciate that…at least you have “X,Y,Z.”
Please don’t say that to anyone who has experienced the loss of a little one. Ever. Even with the best of intentions that is salt to the wound. Yes, I have two living children. But it would never erase the pain or the guilt.
It’s been three years. I look at my boys, and I tell them everyday how much I love them. I see in them the beauty of creation, the life of innocence, the trust, their dad, parts of me, love of life. I want to preserve that in them forever. Encourage them to see the good in the world and create great change.
I look at my boys and wonder how my little love lost would have spiced up our world. Would she be have liked superheroes? Chocolate chip cookies? Would I have sewn more, collecting patterns for frilly dresses done up in comic book fabric? My blue eyes? Her daddy’s brown hair?
These are the thoughts that swirl, always. It seems a constant reminder of the life I couldn’t keep. My hands are shaking, and my heart is racing as I type these words. This reminder. This memorial. The little life of which only I seem to remember and pine for.
I have three children. One is crafted in the ephemeral, golden dust of the Universe, and two of them happily shenanigate with me in this realm.
There will always be the question of what if, there will always be the twist of my stomach at the memory, but as with all things, time blurs the edges a little bit. Makes it easier to compartmentalize the pain but it never ends. I will mourn the little life that touched me. I will always love her.