Pictures of You

Dear Emma,

My sweet girl. I finally got the nerve to look at the pictures my sister took of you, of us. You had your mother’s nose, and your father’s mouth. We will never know whose eyes you had. Each day that passes I feel more desperate to be connected to you. More scared that you’re slipping away. You should be with me. Here. Now. I tried to believe in God for you. When you were alive and kicking in my belly. I wanted you to have the choice, to believe. Now I sit here, wondering how God could let you go. How God could allow this to happen. It’s easier now to not believe there is no god. It’s the only thing that makes sense. They don’t know what happened. How did you die? Why did you die? I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I think of how to memorialize you. How I can feel connected to you. A ring with the stone of the day I birthed you. A tattoo of a heart and your initial. But what of a service? How do I bring myself to have a service? It seems a nightmare. And still, you deserve a service. Even quiet, among close family, at our home. It hurts. Not having you here hurts. I am choking on the love I have for you, that I can’t share with you. I love you and it hurts so much. And the hurt is all I have of you. It’s how I love you, how I grieve you. I dwell in the pain to be close to you. To be happy feels like a betrayal. Though I’m sure, had you the cognizant ability, you would not have wanted the end of your life to also end mine. The books say I’m not being punished, that I need to live for you. My sister says that too. I hope I can continue living again. Right now I just want to feel you. I just want to close the windows, and lock the doors, and love you; in the dark through my memories and tears. It’s all I know how to be with you now. Maybe that will change.