HER DAYS
Sometime after Halloween, if people ask and I’m feeling up to it, I explain that winter is her season. It all began to unfold shortly before Thanksgiving and so, that year, the nights felt longer and darker. Winter is her season. And since she was born in February, it is her month.
Sometime after Halloween, if people ask and I’m feeling up to it, I explain that winter is her season. It all began to unfold shortly before Thanksgiving and so, that year, the nights felt longer and darker. Winter is her season. And since she was born in February, it is her month.
February is her month and these are her days.
Amalia was born February 9th 2011 after two hours
of pushing, twenty-four hours of labor, three months of desperate grief and
sadness, and nine months of love and anticipation. I say that Ama’s birth made
us parents, but the truth is, Ama’s pregnancy made us parents.
By the time she was born, Hawk and I had already been
confronted with the most challenging decisions parents can ever face. By the
time she was born, we were exhausted — and her birth was just the beginning. Our
daughter lived for seventeen days.
For me, her days were experienced as a concentrated
parenthood. Her father and I spent
them simultaneously marveling at her perfect newborness while ferociously advocating
for her needs and preparing to let her go.
These days will always break my heart. But I am learning to
live with it. We are all learning.
Tomorrow, Ama’s Dad, sister, and I will go to the sculpture
garden where we held her memorial. We will eat a piece of birthday cake in her
honor. We will try to make it through these days.
