It has been two years now. Two years since arguably the worse day of my life. I have so many questions. Yet, I know they will never be answered. I have so many things that I want to say to you. First off, I do think of you often. Every single day you cross my mind. I think of what and who you could have been. I think of what your smile could have been like. I think of what your laugh may have sounded like. I wonder if you would have been happy. I hope you would have been happy. I think about us making cookies together while watching your favorite movie for the one-thousandth time. I wonder what movies or shows you would have liked. If you would have been like me and become obsessive over things. Would you be afraid of the dark until your double digits like I was? Would you like animals as much as I do? Would you have the same hair or eyes as me? Would you like your hair and eyes? Would I have done a good job ensuring you saw your own beauty? Would I have failed you? Did I fail you? I didn’t know you for long, but you changed me in more ways than I will ever fully understand.
I am guilty of tearing up whenever I see a child running around with their family. I am ashamed to say that I envy them. I envy the fact that they can watch their child grow and explore this world. I envy that they can have their child come home from school and hear their child’s joy at learning and discovering new things. I see kids playing on the playground or at the park and think about how you should be here. How you should be next to them. You should be running around playing with them. You should be coming home excited that you learned how to spell your first name. The same way I have seen countless kids before. I would tell you to show me, and I would watch as your eyes lit up as you proved to me that you could write your name. Then we would put it up on our fridge next to your hand turkeys and finger paints. We would have craft nights at least once a week.
If you were like me and loved to be in the kitchen, I would set up little stations to help me make food and desserts. We would then take them, grandma and grandpa, despite them begging us to stop because we are “making them fat.” I wonder what your eyes would have looked like when I took you to the zoo or aquarium. I would love to have been able to see your face when you saw the animals. Instead, I can only imagine what your face would have looked like when you saw the animals. What would have been your favorite animal to see? Mine was always the zebras, lions, or wolves. I wonder what your face would have been like when we would have gone on hikes and explored the woods surrounding our little town. I would take you to all the waterfalls and caves I know.
I would have loved to see your face either become bright with excitement or twist in disgust when you went fishing with grandpa. Would you have even liked fishing? I hated it. I could not stand sitting for so long and having to be quiet. Would you have been the same? What would have been your favorite subject in school? Mine is math. Would you have friends? Would you have a large group of friends or just a close few? I have a few close friends. I prefer it this way. Expect the day I lost you. I was alone that day. Alone, in pain, and afraid. No one knew that you existed. I was afraid, and then it was too late. I spent three months in my own turmoil before I told another person. But that does not matter. What matters is you. If you were here, I would make sure that never happened to you. I know I would not be able to. Pain is normal. It is needed. My parents do everything they can to ensure I do not feel any pain. Yet, as was seen at this moment… it still happens. I have a million questions, and as much as it hurts, I know they will never be answered. The best I can do is imagine what could have been.
Most days, I do feel like I failed you. I feel like if I were better, smarter, wiser, wealthier, anything at all, you would still be here. You would be happy. A few months ago, I sat in a cold, ugly distant office and heard the second worst news of my life. It was almost two years since you left me. The doctor came in with a look on her face I hadn’t seen since you. She spoke to me in almost a whisper. “I am sorry, but the chances of you ever getting pregnant again are slim. Now, this doesn’t mean it is not possible but….” I tone out. I failed once before at being a mom. I did not even get to have the one baby I had known. Why did I ever think I deserved or even stood a second chance?