Letters in Smoke

Hey there, darling.

It's been a month and nine days since your dad and I found out that we lost you. It's been a month and seven since they induced my body to recognize that you weren't there anymore. It's been the roughest month of my life.

Robby, who is your dad, has been my rock through all of this. I'm not sure if I'd still be here without him. I would've just given up by now, if he hadn't been there to share all this with me. He's such an amazing, wonderful guy-- I wish that he could've met you. I wish that I could've met you.

You left us too early for us to even hold. I thought I was about to be twelve weeks; you left at eight weeks and two days, according to the ultrasound. When we found out, we couldn't stop crying. The tears just came and came. Your dad tried to call one of our close friends to come be with us-- she's like a mother to us, and would've been like a grandma to you, Dahlia. He couldn't talk through the tears; that was one of the only times during all of this that I was able to get a handle on my emotions through a sheer force of will. I told her what happened, and she very gladly came over.

I remember laying on the couch that night, in your dad's arms, while she called my family-- I couldn't bring myself to, but I wanted to just get it over with. I wanted them to know. I don't remember, though, when our friends came and took the changing table away. It made me so upset that they did that. When I walked into the bedroom and saw that it wasn't there anymore. It felt, at the moment, like they were trying to make me forget that you'd been here in our lives. I know that they were just trying to help, but... it hurt.

I miss you so much. We don't even know if you were a boy or a girl-- we think that when you left, all the parts hadn't started to develop yet, and we know that before a baby's body "picks" its sex, it's female. So that's what we cemented in our minds for you. I don't care if you were male, female, both... I just want to hold you. I know that up in heaven, which is where I'm sure you're waiting for me and dad, that your Uncle Mark has his hands full with you, and with your unnamed sister from all those years ago. I wish that I'd given her a name. I hope that you've picked something to call her by-- maybe your uncle has. Maybe as this pain lessens, I'll be able to find a good name for her- I've always liked the name Olivia. Maybe?

Today hasn't been a good day, little darling. Yesterday was fabulous-- it marked a year that your dad and I have been married. We celebrated, we loved each other, we were silly and geeky and all the things that make us up. I feel guilty for being so happy. I know it's silly, but I do. I should've been pregnant with you. I should've been almost seventeen weeks. I'm surprised that I was able to push all the sadness away for a day. But it's all back today, in triplicate.

I gave this journal the title 'letters in smoke' because there's a custom where people will burn letters, or symbolic things and let the smoke carry their message up to heaven-- to God, to their loved ones... I know that the ancient Greeks and the early Christians used to give burnt offerings because they knew that their God (or Gods, in the case of the Greeks... I wish I could've taught you all I know about mythology) would see the smoke and know that they were sending him an offering. I can't bring myself to burn anything of yours. I haven't written any letters on paper. But when dad and I go off for our camping trip- we still want to, to remember you and put your memory to rest - we'll send something up to you.

We love you, Dahlia. I love you. I'll see you someday, angel.

- Loki