Greg was holding her, and I was leaning into his shoulder so my face was only a few inches from her. I could smell that sweet, buttermilk newborn smell, and my hands were on her.
Charlotte's tiny feet hovered near my breast, her toes so impossibly small it was hard to believe they were all there, but they were. All with their complete tiny flecks of toenail, perfect and lovely. I cradled her foot in the palm of my hand held her first toe between my fingers.
This little piggie goes to market...
And so it goes, right to the part where the piggie cried all the way home.
Because I was never going to get to play that game with her, was I.
To this day, I almost cry a little every time I play that game with one of my living babies, because they are there, and she is not.
8 comments:
This picture is beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. This entry really moved me...
xo
These recent memory posts have been harrowing to read, but so beautiful at the same time. I'm constantly in such awe of your voice. Her toes...
Oh, those feet. Before I ever saw a picture of Charlotte, I had this image of a perfect baby girl in my mind. It was an image that broke my heart, but it is also an image so beautiful that it takes my breath away. These posts are wonderful.
Oh we play this game with Angus every day. Now I'm sad I never thought to play it with Hope. You know, I don't even think I really saw her feet, she was wrapped and dressed so quickly (because I guess those midwives though that was best). And now I'm sad again.
xo
I found your blog a few weeks ago after I miscarried at 12 weeks. I have found comfort in reading your blog. You are such a strong person! Thank you for sharing your feelings. Thank you for helping others during such hard times.
I read your story in Mothering and will never forget it. Thank you so much for sharing your story of loss. I found your blog after my own recent loss, a miscarriage at 10 weeks.
I encouraged a mother to count his toes. One by one. Took pictures of his tiny feet adorned with a set of wedding bands. Because Daddy couldn't make it in time... the Red Cross will bring a soldier home... but not always in time to witness the miracle.
I wept when I tried to give him a bath. I am just the nurse... but my tears dripped on his leg. She was so numb with grief... I had to teach her to make memories... and promised her one day she would open the book of pictures... the box of keepsakes... and she would want to see them... even though "seeing" was the last thing she wanted to do in this moment.
And I wept again. When my very alive daughter crawled into my arms early in the morning after I came home from work... and told me I was "warm."
And I prayed that I said the right things. That I was tender enough... compassionate enough... soft enough... and careful not to say the one thing that would haunt her forever... whatever that might be.
@Taking Heart: Thank you for being thoughtful, considerate, careful, for crying beside that mother. Because, as we all know, very few people do...
Post a Comment