It’s been three years today -- how do I remember this day?
I remember the excitement with which I told K and L about you -- I remember the heaviness of my abdomen. I remember our first visit to the Doctor's office and that hope for new life. I remember my heart literally leaping with joy when she confirmed the pregnancy test.
It's been three years today -- how can I remember this day?
I remember the drifting dreams, as I closed my eyes in my rocking chair. I remember imagining your face, dreaming of your life, thinking of the stories of who you could be, imagining the pull of your hunger from my breast. I remember wondering if you would be dark like K or light complexioned like L. The anticipation was wonderful, the hope was sustaining through the nightmare of my own mother's death. I thought of you as Harriet Marie. I could feel you grow daily.
It's been three years today - how should I remember this day?
How much of my own life would I give to know the color of your eyes? How many years of my own life would I give to have you live a year, a month, just one day? I remember the pain with which the Doctor told me that you would not live, that I was going to miscarry. I had carried you for months, how could this be? You had a name, you had identity, I imagined could feel your soul. I had felt your fish-like motions in my body, you kicked out in joy, you had life -- and then there was nothing. They called you "fetal tissue," but you were and always will be my Harriet.
It's been three years today.
And I dream of you.
Thus says the LORD: "A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are not." Jeremiah 31:15