I Am Not Done

I wasn’t done. I wasn’t done growing her little body. I wasn’t done feeding her. I wasn’t done holding her. I wasn’t done smelling the top of her head. I wasn’t done going on walks with her. I wasn’t done saying, “it’s you and me, Baby Girl”. I wasn’t done dreaming of her future. I wasn’t done kissing her cheeks. I wasn’t done looking at her. Most of those things hadn’t fully begun. But I wasn’t done.

She started to turn cold in my arms. They had to take her away. I knew it. But I wasn’t done.

They called a few days later, wondering where to send her body. We needed find a place for her. But I wasn’t done.

They set the chairs out. The little table, too. I asked what it was for. They said it was for the little wood box that held her. I thought how unjust it was that only it would get to hold her now. I wasn’t done.

It was all wrong. Mothers do not outlive their children. The promise of children is that they carry on life after we are gone. Don’t they understand? We are not done!

She had learned, or felt, or became whatever perfect thing we are supposed to learn, or feel, or become here in this life. But I suppose I am not done.

…

I am still not done. I am not done missing you. I am not done healing the hole in my heart left by the loss of you. I am not done.

But your sister, she needs me.

She cries for me to get her up and change her soiled pants. She smiles at me, and asks for my companionship. She needs me to laugh with her. To find joy with her. But I am not done with this grief.