I thought today would go a lot smoother. Actually I forgot about it until this morning. Then it hit me. And stuck with me all day. Creeping on the edges of my brain, keeping me on the verge of a panic all day. The due date for Elizabeth (my daughter named her, and since it’s my late Nana’s name I certainly had no objections) didn’t hit me as hard. I don’t know why. Maybe because they’re piling up? Maybe because I know there is another “due day” to come- where nothing is due but disappointment, emptiness and grief? Maybe because there are babies due all around me, all around my date. Will I be able to look at them and not think of mine? Half the time I feel like screaming. Telling them all. But tell them what? That my ghost of a child would be here too? It’s insane. This one didn’t last long enough to garner a name, and for that I feel awful as well. She’s a whisper. A glimmer. Hope. Her name is Hope.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. -Pablo Neruda