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.
Did I?
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.
Momma.
Month of Letters https://www.facebook.com/LetterMo
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?
Hashtags: #amwriting #letters
Thank you for sharing The M3 Blog with hashtags.
Binky
/ May 1, 2014Some things we can just never know. I’m sorry for your loss, Red.
Gray Dawster
/ May 5, 2014I cannot even begin to know how it must feel to lose a baby and with the loss of twins how cruel a blow my sweet friend. I feel the loss reading your heartfelt words, the waiting and the loving thoughts for when they would be born, and the dreadful sadness that is felt forever and a day.
I know that it must have been difficult to write this down and I feel the pain, not as you do my dear friend, for you the memories and loving feelings are for all days, I even struggle to write the next words for I cannot change anything that has gone before but if I could then I surely would for you, and all of the many moms that have lost their babies.
Heartbroken are the days and nights…
Andro xxxx
Gail Thornton
/ May 5, 2014My dearest Red,
My own gut is wrenching in the reading of your letter to your babies, lost. I have not lost a child and bore twins who survived to adulthood as you know.
Your children are all the potential you imagine and wonder. Your pain is palpable and never-ending for the loss of them. I feel for you and yet in my imagination will never come close to your reality in the darkness just before you close your eyes. I dream for you the peace of sleep to swaddle you and sooth you into each new day in which you live without them.
Love,
Gail
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Tess
/ February 2, 2015The longing in this letter is palpable and colors every word with yearning. So sorry for your loss. <3
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