to exhale

Gabraella,

                When you were growing inside me we had a plan.  It included you, was built around you and your sisters to make the best lives possible for you and them, at least according to how we saw it.  Then you went to heaven, and I cried and cry still. And the world was on hold, paused as if waiting to exhale.  How do I let go of the dream of what I thought should have been? 

                I would sit and rock Gracie to sleep and think about how you would look.  Would you look like her? Would you have hair? Would you have my eyes and his nose?  Would you be blond?  I wanted to see you look at me and watch you wrap your tiny hand around my fingers.  I envisioned the house we’d buy having 4 bedrooms one for you and each of your sisters.  The yard where you would play would be filled with toys.  You bedroom would be painted pink.   The house would be baby proofed so you would always be safe.  I had such day dreams of you and your sisters being happy carefree girls.

But when you were born, you were still.  You would never open your eyes, or hold my hand but you were beautiful.  Beautiful and forever quiet and still, and my world was paused wanting for you to exhale, an exhale that will never happen.  Daddy held you then, when you came out.  You were perfect in every way except you would never exhale and your heart would never beat.  Daddy held you and he cried.  He brought you to me and showed me… “So beautiful,” he whispered, and he kissed my forehead, I touched your cheek, and he was right.  You were perfect except you’d never exhale and I so wished and bargained and cried and prayed that you would.   And now I have to learn to exhale because I’ve been holding my breath waiting for you, to teach you how to exhale, to relax into the life I was sure we’d have; I’ve been holding my breath for so long I’ve forgotten how to exhale. 

I see you in Gracie, her baby pictures look just like you.  Her nose is your nose, her face is yours.  I look at Gracie and I see what you might have been in 2 years and I forget to exhale. 

Now, the plans we made have changed.  They are a tailored to a life without you.  But I can’t exhale.  Not yet.  Some of the money we’d have spent on a house has been spent a trailer to go camping, to make family time and new memories.  But the new memories are memories without you and that makes my breath catch.  The four bedroom house I dreamt of having filled with kids is now a three bedroom apartment with one less baby to fill it up.  No mortgage or unexpected expenses to be concerned with, no lawn to mow or snow to shovel, less bills to pay, less responsibility.  But still I can’t exhale.  I’m excited about the new changes, maybe it’s exactly what we needed.  But they are still all without you. 

Sweet Gabbie, when, when can I let go just enough to exhale, when I will I be okay with a future without you?  When will I be okay with the memories of a perfect baby that I could never keep?