On Never Getting to Meet you

There's a very understated and yet poignant grief that is silently held by mothers who never got to meet their babies. There is a grief in the unknown that makes it a deep and silent kind of pain.

We never got to see your sweet little face, or to give you a name. You're just this little plot point of grief in my story. I never got to kiss your little fingers or see what color eyes you had. I never got to hear your voice and - Oh what I would give to listen to the sound of your crying, just once. There were never any butterfly kicks in my belly or any indigestion from my food choices because of you. It's such a silent kind of grief to miss something you never even got to have. How do my arms feel empty when you never even got to fill them? How did you manage to come down long enough to steal a piece of my heart to take back to Heaven with you when you left?

So I'm asking those I leave behind to bury me in my favorite sneakers and a pair of shorts. To make sure I have a hair-tie around my wrist because you and I have a very overdue date, my little love. I want to know everything that's kept you busy while you were waiting for me, and I want to kiss every one of your fingertips and I want to breathe the sound of your giggles. I want to run my fingers through the hair I never got to touch and I want to see what color your eyes are. I want to chase you through the meadows and watch you wish on every dandelion you find. I want to get to introduce you to every family member who never got to meet you and I want to watch you play with the cousins I never got to be an auntie to. I want to spend eternity soaking up the lifetime you never got to live.