Your crib is empty, baby.
You were due to arrive Monday; the date is marked on every calendar I own. My phone and work computer, graphite on calendar paper, everything holds the expectation of you, because you are precious, little one, and we couldn’t wait to meet you.
Did you know the name prayed over you means to explore, to go before, to discover? Your name meant to listen.
I hope someone gives you a safe place to explore. I hope every one of your senses discovers all the wonders of this world. I hope are you free, baby. And I hope someone will listen to you sing and cry and laugh. I hope someone will see the golden, sweet nectar soul you carry in your body.
I hope someone puts bubbles in your bath.
This world is beautiful, love.
Leaves and streams. Oceans and fireflies. Elephants and sunsets.
And for all of this, we want to be with you, to help you, to love you, to hold you, to sing over you, and to watch you grow. And there are three people who have been building home for you, who were waiting for you. Your future was already glowing in the hope of their souls.
I could pick a flower every day for the rest of my life, and the bouquet would not be as big or as beautiful as the way they loved you, already, before your tiny legs and toes and elbows were ever known.
And sweet baby, the world is ugly too.
In the eve of your birth, men and women were murdered, in ways so inhumane, so evil and cruel. You do not know what any of this means yet, and honestly, the grown ups have no clue too. We are such angry and sad and scared creatures. War tears through life on the other side of our aching circle earth and in our backyards, just as it does in our precious, ragged hearts. Every day, you will fight your own wars, and we all want to be with you, to help you, to love you, to hold you, to sing over you, and to watch you grow, baby girl.
So many lives have been murdered, stolen because we are such angry and sad and scared creatures. Their beds are empty just like the crib that sits in your brother’s room, waiting for you. Their children and partners and mothers and fathers are feeling these empty, endless, deep well spaces, too.
But what we do know is they are gone, and the grief has some concrete slab of knowing on which to hold.
But you, baby girl, you? Are you alive? Are you safe? Are you crying or hungry or lonely or scared? We do not know, and this is the most devastating of miscarriages.
We do not know.
How do I do this well? When all I want is you, to be with you, to help you, to hold you, to sing over you, and to watch you grow.
We love you, baby; we love you.