Maybe

Dear Ellie,

Today you would have been 18-months old. Maybe you would have been walking, maybe not. Maybe you would have words to share with us, letting us know what was happening in your little mind. Maybe not.  Maybe you would have tantrums, showing the world just how much not getting your way displeased you! Or maybe you would have been the girl who would have gone off in a corner to pout and cry silently. Maybe your daddy would scoop you up and throw you on the couch as you giggled and squealed. Maybe your Mama would have your toes painted cheerful colors. Maybe you would be able to say my name. Maybe you would babble to me on the phone. Maybe your Mama would be sending me stories of the silly things you did each day. Maybe you would have bright pink braces on your legs or physical therapy five days a week. Maybe I would talk to your Mama about the things I learned in my experiences with special needs that could help you. Maybe we would finally be getting an idea of what your future would look like. But despite all the maybes…you are not doing any of those things. Your earthly body is still in the ground, where we placed it a little over a year ago. Your things are still placed neatly in a box, showing no signs of being used. The world has moved on…even I have. I cannot remember the last time I became teary at the thought your absence…until today. I feel guilty about that. My escape has been numbness…until today. Today, I held a little girl and felt what would have been your weight in my arms. Today, I sang of God’s goodness in church and remembered how it was His goodness that held me when I could not stand because you were gone. You are still gone. Today, I let my mind wander to the day you were born, the day you died, and the day I’ll hold you once more. I let my heart ache as I envisioned the task of explaining who you are to my own future babies. Today, I let myself remember that my Sister and Brother-in-law are living life on earth without you…without your laughs, your needs, and your future. Their arms are empty…still. They are still thinking of you daily, they are still facing a cruel world who forces them to move on. Today, I hurt. I’m empty. I’m angry. I’m lonely. Just for today, I refuse to be ok and I refuse to move on. I refuse to pretend that your life and death are far from me. Today, I want to sit and be quiet. I want to rest in the arms of Jesus…where you are. Today, I’m choosing to hold you and be held. And maybe, just for today, that’s ok.

Love you always,

Aunt Mimi