Seeing (Pale) Red
Dear Josie,
You know what sucks?
Taking pictures of a beautiful, blooming tree instead of my beautiful, growing baby girl.
It's a lovely tree, don't get me wrong. Breathtaking, actually. The perfect embodiment of the continuity of life. Its branches twisting and snagging, culminating into a powder of angelic white.
You would be nearly two months old now, had you been given this chance. Had your life not been ended mid-step, rugs pulled from underneath every dream to grace my doorstep.
I like to think you'd have provided some balance. A calming presence in a sea of testosterone. Rosy cheeks among knees of black and blue. The tea party on the sidelines.
But you're not here.
This is not to say I don't enjoy a good wrestling match, and I do a mean "Shredder" impersonation. In all seriousness, it's better than your father's.
I love being tackled to the ground, time and again, succumbing to my wounds from sword fights on carpets and pirate ships atop blue comforters. I love the smell of the summer sun as it radiates down tired foreheads, kissing purple shins and de-splintering chubby fingers. I love grass stains and puddle jumping. "Mow-mows"and "weed-whips", dirt inside fingernails and worms inside pockets.
And there is nothing in this world that beats sweaty little boy hugs. Nothing.
But sometimes when it's loud, and there's a scrape or a scream, and there's laughter, and everything gets to moving so fast that I can barely hang on, I catch myself wondering what Spiderman would look like in pigtails, or how it would feel to fold a tu-tu, placing it into a little drawer lined in polka dots.
I can feel the empty spot in my heart, then. It's massive, hollow as the trees you'll never climb.
And it's pink.
Love,
Mom
You know what sucks?
Taking pictures of a beautiful, blooming tree instead of my beautiful, growing baby girl.
It's a lovely tree, don't get me wrong. Breathtaking, actually. The perfect embodiment of the continuity of life. Its branches twisting and snagging, culminating into a powder of angelic white.
You would be nearly two months old now, had you been given this chance. Had your life not been ended mid-step, rugs pulled from underneath every dream to grace my doorstep.
I like to think you'd have provided some balance. A calming presence in a sea of testosterone. Rosy cheeks among knees of black and blue. The tea party on the sidelines.
But you're not here.
This is not to say I don't enjoy a good wrestling match, and I do a mean "Shredder" impersonation. In all seriousness, it's better than your father's.
I love being tackled to the ground, time and again, succumbing to my wounds from sword fights on carpets and pirate ships atop blue comforters. I love the smell of the summer sun as it radiates down tired foreheads, kissing purple shins and de-splintering chubby fingers. I love grass stains and puddle jumping. "Mow-mows"and "weed-whips", dirt inside fingernails and worms inside pockets.
And there is nothing in this world that beats sweaty little boy hugs. Nothing.
But sometimes when it's loud, and there's a scrape or a scream, and there's laughter, and everything gets to moving so fast that I can barely hang on, I catch myself wondering what Spiderman would look like in pigtails, or how it would feel to fold a tu-tu, placing it into a little drawer lined in polka dots.
I can feel the empty spot in my heart, then. It's massive, hollow as the trees you'll never climb.
And it's pink.
Love,
Mom
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