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.