Madeline

I’m taking her to the hospital again, says the mother, and we all tense.  Surely it’s precautionary.  Her 17 month old, born a preemie and weak-lunged, forever at the doctor for a cough or fever, just in case.  Again I say: I’m praying for you, crossing my fingers! and go back to whatever, wherever.  I know this will end well, as it always does.  I save deeper hope and energy up for a rainy day – there is no need for it here.

Later, a picture in memoriam – a toothy grin, wide eyelashes, curly hair.  The tossed off prayer slips between my astonished lips and crashes onto the floor in a million tiny shards.  I trace my still-crossed fingers through the broken pieces.    They are sparkling like sand in the sun, like the twinkle in a baby’s eye.  In a baby’s mother’s eye.

She is the stars and the wind and the rain, but for her mother and her father I wish she was not so elevated.  I wish every baby could have so mundane an existence as to grow up well, and whole, and happy.  Blessed are those who mourn, for . . . why, again?

You are remembered, little girl.  I will remember.