There’s a heaviness that creeps in this time of year. I don’t even realize it’s heavy until it fully settles on my chest, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.
I don’t even realize it’s heavy, or stop long enough to feel its weight, until you ask me, pointedly, how I’m doing. I know what you are looking for; your question—“How are you doing?”—cuts through the bullshit of the day-to-day. Your question cuts right through me. So, I breathe. And, after I breathe, allowing the heaviness to fill me, I tell you about it; I describe it to you, hearing it for the first time that year myself.
If I breathe before I answer, I can feel it all. And, if I sit still for long enough, I remember.
I remember the pink nightgown I wore the morning you passed. I was sweeping our apartment at 38 weeks and 2 days. He made a video of me sweeping that morning, and I laughed on camera in my pink nighty. That nightgown, now folded, sits in a bin with a green maxi dress and an all-black outfit. These items I will never part with, but I will certainly never wear again. That nighty was worn by a woman I can’t even remember. I’d never wear that nighty now; I’m a tank-top-and-thong-to-bed girl now. This pink, knee-length nighty represents a woman that I don’t know anymore. Tucked nicely into a plastic bin it sits, along with my naïveté.
Busting at full-term, I slipped out of the nighty and into a green maxi dress, perfect for running errands in late September. I felt you kick in the parking lot at the Superstore. I remember that moment—standing in the parking lot, saying hello to you—only because I was asked later that evening to recall it. That moment, like so many in the previous months, stopped me for a second, but wasn’t anything to write home about. You kicked, I acknowledged, and into the grocery store I went. It wasn’t until I was asked, “When was the last time that you felt her move?” later at the hospital that the moment became forever engraved into my mind. That kick, the way I cupped the lower right side of my belly while standing in the parking lot, will never dissolve into the day-to-day.
You, sweet girl, will never dissolve into the day-to-day. Try as I might to busy myself every September, the moment I stop to breathe, I feel you, and the moment I steady myself, I remember.
Today, I cry for you.
Tomorrow, I celebrate you.
Every day, Mama loves you.
