Full circle.

In a few days, it will be Helena's first birthday. No one can believe that day is here, least of all, me. I remember the day I went in for one of my last routine check ups and there were changes in the babies. I remember feeling the blood leave my head as the doctor was telling me about my admission to happen later that day. All I could think about was that it's time. Time to say goodbye. Time to say hello. Like some sinister twist on an Aloha.


I was walking around the house today, spotting stuff I haven't had the courage to part with or even deal with in a year. That tote bag of hospital paperwork- the only time I signed as your parent, where I actively made decisions as your mommy, tucked away in my closet. The tin containing the cast of your hand and foot prints that the nurses made for me. The teddy bear angel with the glitter rubbed off the wings, hanging from a suction cup on the side of the computer. Your photograph sitting in your twin's room, waiting to be hung. The blood stained blanket that once held you while I held on for just a little longer, sitting in the dresser drawer. Cards from all over with words of encouragement and sympathy. The plant that was sent to me for you and your sister, leaves turning black like some terrible cancer. Your urn- the vessel that holds the remains of your physical body. It's probably covered in dust, I'm terrified to pick it up for fear I'll drop it. I get cards in the mail about you. Just the other day I got one from the two nurses who were so kind. They washed you up, made sure you were warm. Baby, I can't believe you're gone. At night the computer screen goes to sleep while photos flash across the screen. I always seem to look up right when there's one of you in my arms.


You would have loved your brother and sisters. They're full of life, laughter, and love. They ask about you all the time, and I know your twin feels you still. I can see it in her calm, quiet eyes. In the way she rests her head on my shoulder. When she twirls my hair on her finger. I know that somehow, through her, I feel you too.

I don't know what happens when we go, but I'm just hoping you know how much I love you.

dedication, naive and true

This one is for all the mothers out there who have walked a mile in these shoes. This is for all the women who get up each morning and give the day their very best, no matter what they're feeling in that moment. For moms who wear sunglasses all the time to hide their tears. Women who can't listen to songs without breaking down. For those who cry alone in the shower. For moms who are trying to pick up the pieces. For moms who have other children to care for and somehow manage to pull it off. For moms who have to explain to their small children what death and dying is. For women who entered the hospital with child, only to exit without. For moms who have only a set of ink footprints or a photo as remembrance. For those moms who now visit tiny grave sites or have an urn in their house. For moms who can't bear to throw away any paperwork that has to do with their lost child; who saved the plastic bag their baby's ashes came home in. For moms who's friends forgot about them, who's family carried on with their own lives and forgot to ask "how are you feeling today?". For moms who found comfort in words on a screen because the people in their life are too scared to talk to them about it. For moms who find solace in the kind words of a stranger, who find a bit of peace from the people who were there when it all happened. For moms who feel like their spouse has forgotten. For moms who never let a day go by without thoughts of them. I dedicate this to those women who know what it's like to be me.