To the darlings which never were,
Twins. I still have no idea if you were going to be boys or girls. I held one of you in the palm of my hand, but my doctor had to take your four-inch twin.
A son. My second. In the weeks between when you died and your body was removed from the tomb my womb had become, I could not conceive what to name you. It seemed cruel to give you a name which would never be spoken unless read from a headstone.
It has been more than 20 years since doctors aborted your dead bodies from mine. They told me the same things.
It wasn’t meant to be.
It is better this way.
At least you survived.
For all the echoes of little feet in my life, I have always wondered what you would have added to the fracas. What would you have looked like standing in the perfunctory lineup on holidays? Auburns, blondes or chestnuts… your siblings span the gamut.
Lithe and lean or solid as a linebacker? Whip smart and articulate or brilliant and communication-challenged? Boisterous and outspoken or brooding and quiet?
These are the questions which plague the quiet times just before sleep. My own special brand of longing I share with millions of would-have-been mothers. They are the dreams we instill in the flutters we feel in our bellies before you can possibly dream of your own. We window-shop for firsts of every variety, impatiently waiting to celebrate things you will never remember.
All of the children in my life will never take the place of you who never were. Your hearts echoed my beat, even though you never had your own. I dreamed of watching your chests rise and fall, even though you never took a breath. You were like all other children in this world: the potential to make Earth a better place.
I have loved you, truly a hard place to be… heartbroken for you who never were.
Thank you for reminding me how fragile life really is.
This year I participated in the Month of Letters. I was not entirely successful, as I found the challenge after it had already begun.
For an M3 twist, I am writing a letter a day for the month of May.
Can you write a letter a day for a month?
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