Another Sunday Story, this time derived from three people who all share this common grief.
She remembers when her baby slept inside of her,
curled up and floating beneath her heart beat and
she wanted him to stay there for always.
She remembers all of those months later too,
when he gasped his first breaths of air and
she wanted to put him back inside of her.
She remembers how he slept beside their bed,
too far away from her, so far away that it broke her heart
and so she brought him in and he slept again,
curled up and floating beneath her heart beat.
"It's too much," He told her. "The baby has to sleep in his crib."
And that was too much.
So she would go there and curl up on the floor under his crib
and sleep floating beneath his heart beat and
listening to the tick of time
and think that it was running out.
She remembers years later when the school bus came for him
and she climbed into her car still in her pajamas and she
followed behind the bus with tears streaking her face and
she did this for months and months until He told her,
"You can't do this anymore," and she scrubbed every single
thing in the house until her hands hurt as much as her heart
because she could see him driving a car and packing for trips
and wearing a tux and living away from her for the rest of his life.
She could see all of his leaving and she didn't want that.
She wanted him always to sleep floating beneath her heart beat.
Until one day.
The doctor told her that none of that would happen.
He said that her boy would never drive a car or pack for trips
or wear a tux, but only that he would live away from her
for the rest of
And she said no. She said please no. She said please, please no.
She said please let him do all of those things:
The driving and packing and wearing and living.
Please she said. The living most of all.
But somehow this was not to be
and he finally slept
and floating beneath her heart beat.