It came out of nowhere.  A moment in between sight-seeing and movie-watching, after morning walks but before the turkey was carved, a brief moment last week where all I could think of was you – the daughter I miscarried. 

It was a busy Thanksgiving week, busy in a good way.  We did a lot.  We saw a lot in our nation’s capital.  And we enjoyed being together.  We had so many memorable moments, but one moment in particular stands out to me – the moment where I couldn’t help but think of you.

I was sitting on the sofa, and almost everyone had left the room.  We were getting ready to go somewhere or do something; I can’t quite remember what.  I just remember gazing out of the window, looking at the trees, and having such a strong impression of you.  Just you.  Just the fact that you once existed.  And the fact that you’re not here with us now, enjoying this full week with your relatives.  Nothing specific triggered this feeling.  It was just a quick, quiet moment where my thoughts drifted to you. 

This doesn’t happen as often as it once did, but it still happens.  Sometimes, I just can’t help but think of you.  Sometimes, the feeling of your absence is palpable.  My arms ache to hold you.  I long to feel your head on my shoulder and stroke your hair.  And I want so badly to share you with this family I love so much.

The Family You Never Met

Your aunt and uncle are both such naturals when it comes to children.  They would have opened their lives to you, opened their home to you, opened their hearts to you and swallowed you up in love.

Your cousins would have adored you!  I think they would have relished the role of your protector, your teacher, someone to show you the ropes.  And I can think of no better role models than them.  They are each so gifted in many ways, but they all share a sense of compassion, a sweetness that gives breath to all their other virtues.  I would have loved for you to be the recipient of their sweet love.

Your grandma believed in you, waited for you along with me, even prayed you into existence.  I had planned on having her in the delivery room with me because I wanted you and her to meet as soon as possible.  I wanted the two of you to make the most of all the time you had together.  And I know you would have. Her love would have been a staple in your life, her presence and constant encouragement a rock you could have relied on without fail. 

They would’ve loved to love you.

And I would’ve loved to have seen it. 

Looking Back

I was just missing you and imagining, for a brief moment, what it would have been like if you were here. 

But you aren’t.  Our memories don’t include you.  Our family photos are void of your face.  And our hearts miss the love we would have shared with you.  And while I don’t think about this all the time, sometimes I can’t help it, even though it’s been a few years. 

It’s not healthy to think along these lines every day, and it’s equally not healthy to never think about it at all.  It’s therapeutic for me to remember you, to remember that you existed, even just briefly.  I would rather remember than forget it ever happened, even if that means remembering and feeling the pain also. 

Because remembering you also means remembering love – the love I felt for you instantly, a love I still have.  I love the memory of you.  And that’s why I think of you from time to time, like I did last week surrounded by the family you never knew.  We would’ve loved to share you with your dad’s family as well.  The people we love who would’ve loved you are many.

Looking Ahead

The one consolation in all this hit me in the most unexpected place.  Since we were all together in Virginia, we took the short drive down to Arlington National Cemetery.  Under the cover of fall leaves, with the backdrop of the D. C. skyline, we passed name after name, until we came to one – the name of your grandfather who died five years before you did.

Maybe there is a family member you’ve met.  Maybe when I think of you, I can imagine the two of you together – the father I’ll always remember and the daughter I can’t forget.