"S" is for Sunday.

I turn your photos at all angles.
Upside down, sideways, longways, backwards.
I try to get inside of them.
I try to touch your dimensions.
Today, you really are gone.
I miss you so much my heart breaks.
It is not beautiful today.
It is not a sweet sadness.
It is frantic, and felt through gritted teeth.
In moments, I want to cry out the worst words.
But, I do it silently, mouth open, but no sound.
You can't hear me say those things.
I pray you are watching me.
Knowing how much I miss you.
If I knew all along you would die,
I would be pregnant with you again.
Just to have those moments of holding you.
I would do it right.
I would kiss you like I kiss your sister.
In the soft hollow under the chin.
I would kiss and weep into the palms of your hands.
I would take beautiful photos.
I would know then what I know now.
That more than two years later,
It would hurt like it was yesterday.
That missing you would feel like
My organs were being ripped from my body.
Worse than that.
I would know that nothing feels worse.
I would know for sure that I would never be the same.
I would prepare for this agony.
I would drink in your soft skin.
I would remember your baby shoulders.
I would have brushed your long hair.
I would have dressed you so gently.
I would have held you until the nurse begged to take you away.
I would photograph you from all angles.
So that I could never forget the way your
Neck met your baby chest.
I would plaster my house with the pictures of you.
I would show them to everyone I meet.

These things happen.

I am sitting in the bed with Eleanor. She is giggling in that perfect way that she does. She sits on my stomach as we talk about ponies, and she bounces with an overflow of pure excitement. She babbles words that sound like your name, my name, nonsense. She leans forward, so slowly, and her face descends upon my own. She touches her forehead to mine, very gentle, and hums softly. We stay just like that. It is as if the universe pauses, waiting for something to happen.

Later, I put Eleanor to bed. I kiss her on both cheeks, and draw the blanket up around her.

I return to sit on the edge of the bed, and pull out our only photos of you. I imagine you, always at the threshhold of the door. You peek around, always in long sleeved pajamas with bare, pink feet. You grin and wrinkle your tiny nose. I wag my finger, smiling in a way that lets you know you should be napping. But, you approach, and I pull you up next to me. You lay your dark wavy hair on my lap, and I let you fall asleep so close to me.

I have let myself get away again. In the quiet moments, I find my hand gently stroking the still air. You must still be in bed.

An incoherent jumble.

It's hard to not be happy when you're everywhere.

If I see you in the sunrise, how can I be sad?
If every flake of snow that falls is you, how can I be sad?
In the way light and leaves mingle, like ice and water in a glass?
If the trees and wind makes whispers, mistaken for your laugh?

In rhyme and cadence, feet padding down the hall, times when tears and laughter really do coincide, heartbreak, hugging just a little too long. Happiness is battle hard won.

I try to keep them alive.

I've never had a green thumb. I've purchased geraniums, mums, ferns, cacti - many plants throughout my life. All have withered, browned, and dropped leaves. But, after our baby died, I was given a collection of living plants. Green, breathing gifts were perfect. They were something I could commit to keeping alive, at a time when life was something at which to be furious. So, furious I was; and with that I kept them alive. Four plants remain now, green, thriving. But, one night last week, one of those plants came crashing to the floor. The pot slivered into thousands of pieces across the kitchen linoleum. I dropped to my knees, nevermind the broken glass. I cried in a way I'd almost forgotten. As my quiet came back, I got out the utilitarian, little dust pan. I turned it over in my hands, and looked at the sterile plastic of its handle. These, I thought, these little well-used pieces of plastic and these thousands of store-bought bristles are going to sweep up my baby. Bit of my baby, everywhere. Shards of baby. Remnants of baby. Soft dirt of baby. Leaves of baby. This is what I have left of my baby. And, I swept her up in a plastic dustpan. My memories, already so few, gathered into that plastic dustpan.