Dear Zoey,

Happy Valentine’s Day my sweet, beautiful girl!

Before you were born a friend sent me a note.  In it he said that as soon as you arrived, love would be completely redefined.  He was correct.  But it started long before you were born.  Love changed the moment we knew I was carrying you.  My love for you gives me hope.  It gives me grace.  It fills my life in ways I cannot fully explain.

Many great love stories have been told.  But I would argue that the greatest love story is the one between a mom and the child she knows is leaving her.  You will not see a fiercer loyalty.  A stronger bond.  A stronger fight.  A more intense prayer.  I experienced it with you. I’ve seen it with my friends who have also lost their children.  But our story hasn’t ended just because you died.  I’m still your mom.  I feel you with me.

I am proud to be your mother.  I am grateful for the time we had together. I will continue to honor your life.  You are the greatest love of my life (I’m sure your dad will understand).  You did redefine love.  You redefined hope. And prayer.  And joy.  And heartbreak.  But the amount of love I hold for you is worth every piece of my broken heart. I would shatter it in a million more pieces for a moment with you. One more breath. One more heartbeat.

I love it when people say your name.  When they mention a memory of you.  You see, it isn’t your life that brings me pain.  No, your life brings me great joy.  You filled me with wonder. I was always in awe of you.  Your tiny nose, little fingers, that full head of hair.  Your soft little bunny feet.  The way you would coo and how you tried to smile.  Looking in your eyes made me feel whole.  So no, I do not grieve your life.

I hope my love continues to find you.  You will always fill my life with love.  My love for you did not end.  And will not end.

I love you my baby bird,

mom

 

On the way into work, the radio was airing a story on touch.  One of the senses people often forget about and may not realize is so important.  And I began to cry.  The memory of my daughter’s soft little bunny feet.  I could have rubbed my fingers against the bottom of her feet for hours.  Sometimes I did. It seems that everyone who met her and touched those little feet said the same thing.  So soft.

I felt that familiar ache.  The one where I swear my heart is actually in pieces.  The one where just for a heartbeat I can feel her again.

Her weight against my chest.

Her breath on my skin.

The tickle of her hair.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine.