When I woke up, I was already sobbing.
She told me later that she heard me apologize to you before the weeping began.
She woke me up, pulled me from the dream but not from the sadness. Into her, I turned and wept.
I told her it was you that I was dreaming about.
I don’t remember the dream, but I felt you in that moment. There I lay, this morning at 4:00 AM, and bawled. Fetal and raw, tears ran down my face and onto my pillow.
I practiced my breathwork to slow the fun little 4:00 AM menty-b I was having. I have been practicing my breathwork all week when, photo after photo, I am bombarded with the reminders:
You should be graduating.
You should be here.
But, you aren’t.
I watch and smile at all the photos of the babies, now grown, who are graduating. I rubbed their mothers’ tummies, as they rubbed mine. We are all connected.
You see, all week I would open my social media only to close it. The gowns. The caps. The smiles on living children. It all hurt far too much.
So I closed the apps and thought I was good. I thought I was good until I wasn’t.
Breathwork helped. It always does.
As I turned to lay my head back down, I grabbed my phone. A new text. Your sister had texted me at 11:30 the night before. It seems that you visited her as well.
She said:
“Mom,
I just realized something while trying to fall asleep.
Today Penelope would have graduated.
It’s the 8th grade Graduation day.”
So, my firstborn. My love. My graduate.
I have loved you since the moment I knew of your existence, and I will love you until the end of mine (and for eons after).
Now, toss that cap high into the sky, and I’ll turn my gaze up to see if I might be able to see.
Happy Graduation Day, Sweet Baby P.
