Snowy Dawn

I thought she was going to make it.

I thought she was going to be our own little miracle.

I thought she would grow up to be the strongest, fiercest, most ebullient of girls. I was looking forward to meeting her, holding her, making her laugh, watching her do life.

I was looking forward to teaching her how to call me tia, even if her parents don't speak Spanish.

But she won't get to do that. She didn't get to feel the sunshine. She didn't get to see her own papa's face. She didn't get to meet her big brother. She went to sleep in the depths of her mama's womb, forever.

She was born into this world in stillness, in silence. There was no earth-shattering cry coming from the deepest parts of her little lungs--in fact, it was her lungs that were part of the problem. They didn't work well. Her heart was trying to make up for her lungs, so it overgrew, causing her early departure from our world.

Above all, a numbness overwhelms me every so often, when I think about how much I prayed for her to make it and how sure I was that God was going to grant us that miracle. But the numbness is quickly washed away by a wave of pain, of grief.

Grief about nicknames that will never be used. Grief about photos that will never be taken. Grief about anecdotes that will never be shared.

"Let me tell you the story of how your parents fell in love--it was all thanks to me!" I won't be able to tell her that.

While everyone else panics about a virus that makes our elders vulnerable, while everyone else painfully protects their older loved ones, while everyone else hunkers down at home with plenty or little supplies, I sit here and type--with tears streaming down my face--as I try to wrap my head around the fact that I've lost a person who I loved deeply, even if I never got to meet her. More than likely, the coronavirus wouldn't have hurt her at all (it doesn't seem to have much power over kids under 10 years old). Yet, we still lost her.

So, even though COVID-19 has not taken the life of someone I love, I partake of the supper of grief. Even though Coronavirus didn't hurt me personally, the pain in my heart today is as real as the pain of those who never got to see their mom, their elderly uncle, their asthmatic son, their immunocompromised daughter, their grandparent... again. And perhaps the thing to do here would be to allow that pain to burst forth from our hearts in a melancholic melody, so that it can be strung together, from one heart to the next to the next, into one beautifully aching symphony of empathy. Perhaps, if we allow the pain out, it can find the pain in others, and the threads can be weaved together into a gracefully tender tapestry of kindness.

I'd like to think that our little angel will find in heaven plenty of loving tios and tias, of grandparents. I'd be willing to bet someone reading this would love to lend her their daddy, their grandma, their cousin who was gone too soon. If that's the case, I thank you in advance.

A snowy dawn brings the promise of a new start. A snowy dawn carries with it an unexplainably playful joy, even if it's in the middle of the harshest winter. A snowy dawn can foster unimaginable hope. A snowy dawn assures us that the darkness is gone.

So, my little Snowy Dawn, even though I didn't get to meet you, I'm grateful for the legacy you've left behind. You were strong and courageous and you fought for your life with all your tiny might. May I learn from you to be strong, to be brave, to let my heart swell up with love for my neighbor. Thank you for being a sign of beauty, joy, and hope... even if you were only with us for 28 weeks.

Your Hands

Your hands.

I’m trying to write you a poem,

And the first thing that comes to mind is

Your hands.

They have

The strength to root out weeds,

The gentleness to sow beauty,

From my soul, in my soul.

Your hands,

Always helping everyone out,

Always giving without doubt,

Always creating something magical.

Serving

Hearty chili to other broke college kids,
Cake so delicious it lifts up the spirit,

Freshly brewed tea to everyone you meet.

Praying

Fiercely, when all hope seems lost,

Softly, if the waves are frightfully rough,

Yet pleading unceasingly and unwaveringly so.

Loving

Many times, with a bleeding heart,

Lighting up the darkness around,

Binding up wounds and smoothing out scars.

The crazy part is that if I’m asked

To describe what your actual hands look like

I come up empty—

I’ve never been a careful observer.

So my heart sinks—

How many times

Were your hands so ready

To pull me out of the void?

Yet I can’t remember

Any more than their slenderness,

Their whiteness, their warmth,
And how I took them for granted.

Your hands.

They are not around.

My days languish by

Without the comfort of their embrace.

They can’t

Patch me up anymore,

Smooth out the worry on my soul,

Water the roots of my dry bones.

Grief

Overpowers me often,

And homesickness

nestles in my chest.

But if I, in my wandering,

Close my eyes and say a prayer,

I suddenly stumble upon

The sweetest of truths:

Your hands

Don’t really matter,

Since your heart

Is intertwined with mine.