Does the Snow Fall in Heaven?

A letter (prose poem) of a mother to her dead child.

Does the Snow Fall in Heaven?

Fransivan MacKenzie

No, I have not forgotten. 

It's the first snow of December. Today, you would have been three. 

When they ask me about heaven, I tell them about your paradise. With my words, I paint them a picture of cirrus clouds that are actually islands you hop into. The rainbow is your favorite slide. When you want to lay your head down, you rest upon this gigantic bed of grey, blanketed by a thin flimsy sheet of white. You rename the stars after your best friends and trap them into majestic figures only you can communicate to. When you are not sleeping or playing, you are singing hymns with the angels.

When it drizzles, I imagine you taking a shower. That is almost comical, don't you think? Do you ever get dirty in a place like that? When it storms, you're calling out for me. So wherever I am, when the waters beat the ground, I look up. I think of my name caught in the shape of your mouth. Your tongue may have never learned it but I know your heart didn't have to. 

Some nights, I hear you screeching. And then I realize it's me, back in the chrome walls of the hospital room, cradling you in the crook of my arm. You were so small you would have fit inside my pocket, but at the same time, you took up every space in my universe. You were lifeless, but you were larger than life itself. 

I still wonder if you would have gotten the same earthy brown eyes as mine, same bow of lips, same color and texture of the hair. I wonder if you would have been a writer or a musician when you grew up. Would you have chosen Badminton as your sport? Would you be obsessed over World History and hate Mathematics? Would you have an unfounded animosity towards jigsaw puzzles, too? Would your skin emanate the wraith of ginger and maple syrup? All these question marks hovering on my horizon like dark clouds drive me mad sometimes.

Are you growing up, honey? Or is time a foreign concept where you are? Are you as little as the first, the last and the only time I saw you? Eyes closed, hands balled, your lips a flute with no space for music to flow into. I remember. You were unbelievably gone and perfectly beautiful. And what an honor it was to hold you. A miracle. A life that never was. For a while -- a golden while -- my skin got to wrap itself around yours. And that would have to be enough. A million times enough to carry me through a lifetime here into forevermore. 

I'm not sure of anything except this: you would know that I would have loved you really well. I would have made myself certain you knew it to the core. If I could love you gone, how much more could I love you while you're here?

I would have read you fairytales and serenaded you with Beethoven and Mozart. I would have brought you with me in my strolls along the sea. I would have taught you how to locate us in a world map. I would have taken care of you the best way I knew how.

You know what? The true reason why I love birthdays is because you never had one. Instead of lighting number-shaped candles ingrained upon chocolate cakes, I have an urn to mourn over. I have faith in angels because I know you've become one. I hold on to the smell of people I'm close to because all I got from you was the sharp whiff of rust and never becoming. You are the reason why I wake up with this Grand-Canyon hole in my chest, gnawing and aching. To whom do I give this love meant to be yours and yours alone?

Sometimes, I hate myself for being joyous in the wake of this season. But I'd like to believe you would have wanted me to be enchanted by the Christmas lights, enamored by the snowfall, engrossed in Disney films you never got around to see. I know you would have wanted me to live the life you never had the chance to. 

I miss you, little one. Everyday of my life. I promise I'll never let you float away in time. You're the only one I can ever call mine, after all. I will see you one day. It will take me a while to get there, but wait for me, I'll be home.

Author's Note

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