Letter #3

Hi Angel,

You were on my mind a lot last night. Usually I think of you while I’m in the shower getting ready for the day or when I’m about to go to sleep. I like to say ‘good morning’ or ‘good night’ or ‘how are things up there?’ It allows me to imagine that you’re living a happy life, even if I can’t imagine what you look like. The way I’ve thought of you hasn’t changed since I first found out I was pregnant. You exist in an abstract form in my mind; I guess that will have to do until I can see you myself.

Movies and TV shows that show parents separated from their children make me cry easily now. Depictions of waiting to be reunited again strike a very deep chord. I can’t help thinking that we’re waiting for each other and it tugs at my heart that you’re somewhere else without me. I try not to focus on the fact that you were so little and undeveloped when you left because it’s more hopeful to think that your soul was already so close to mine. Souls might recognize each other in Heaven. I don’t know. Even if it’s not theologically true I think God can forgive me for holding on to that idea for comfort.

Last night I found my heart aching like it hasn’t ached in a few months. There have been exciting things going on, as I’m sure you know. I ask you to be a guardian angel often in short chats with you. The days of melancholy are far and few between as a result. But last night I thought about how I would have been 8 months pregnant, how we would have been eagerly preparing for your arrival, that we would have known if you were a boy or a girl (even though my heart always felt so confidently that you’re a girl–if you’re not, sorry!) I fell asleep as I grieved over those things. I dreamed a hazy dream where I was aware that I had miscarried a baby, and that baby was a girl. I guess my subconscious leaked into my sleep.

I’ve been cautiously waiting for March to come around because you would have been a late-March baby. I thought that I would be able to evaluate my emotional well-being as the date approached, but I should know by now that you can’t predict when grief will present itself. I’m thankful that it’s lessened in intensity, and, all things considered, I’m in a healthy place. I’ll roll with the punches and give myself grace as your week approaches. We love you and haven’t forgotten you, especially with the happy news. If anything, I think about you more.

With all my love,
Mommy