Your Light Is On

Dear Emma,

Maddie’s started to go into your room each night and turn on the light each night. The beautiful lamp mom bought casts a sweet, warm light that dances across the toys on your window sill casting playful shadows. Unobtrusively light floods gently into your crib. Nothing feels innately sad. And in a moth-like process we each flutter into the room.

It’s becoming ritual to dig our feet into the furry carpet spread across your floor like pelt of some abominable snow monster or other mythical creature from the fairytales.

Mom sits with a few books strew on the carpet. This sunny day was tempered, Big Mae and Little Mae casting momentary sullen shadows. The emotional ranges more present and pronounced. The reminders of life mom and I feel beating at the door of our grief turned their attention to them. We chose to read about our Angel Emma instead of our Baby Emma. It helped give their grief, their conflict, their confusion permission and validation. We ended with laughter, hugs, kisses, and good night prayers.

Mom and I sat in your room. We looked at Little Mae’s birth pictures. Our hearts felt both like impregnable stone and piles of lifeless rumble. We held each other and tears and love welled up. I didn’t want an Angel tonight. I wanted a Baby. Grief and healing is a contract you renew each day and every night. I renewed healing today and grief tonight. I’ll work to renew it all again tomorrow.

I’m glad we didn’t react, pack, and banish the reminders of you to some cold storage space. I love the warmth of the light in your room.

Love,

Dad