Five

Five years seems...long. And so it is that I cannot understand why, in so many ways, it feels like it all happened this morning. Moving away was hard. So much harder than I thought it would be. I was sitting on my bed, staring out my window when my whole world shattered into a thousand pieces. So leaving that window, with that view that existed in the one moment everything changed was like leaving her there, in Utah. Even though she had never, ever been to Utah.

I thought here would, perhaps, be easier. Because no memory of her was ever here. Except that isn't true. We were here, in Oregon, when we found out she was a girl and she would be ours. And here, in Oregon, I am around little tiny girls much more often than I was in Utah. They are bouncing through our church, giggling together, being four or five. And in a way that is basically insane, my mind sees her among them almost always. A shadow, laughing and jumping, outrageous curls tied up on top of her head.

She would be five. We would be wrapping up preschool and thinking about kindergarten. She'd have her own room here and maybe it would be pink or purple or orange with blue polka dots. Who's to say? We don't know what she would have liked and what she would have hated. All that potential and opinion died with her.

I've been more aware of this date approaching than I was in the last couple of years. It has loomed on the horizon since just after Christmas. Why this year, I can't say for certain. Maybe because I'm writing it all down.

There are two parts to Kate's story. The Kate part and the Will part. But both of them really belong to her. He knows all about her. He knows she died inside their mother and, before he understood that she came first, he thought they were together--which is, strangely, how I often think about them because I simply cannot have one without the other. The first time he comprehended that she went to Jesus, he tenderly and quietly said, "I should have holded her in there so she did not die." And it broke my heart.

Then I thought about it. I imagined that womb and I thought about how he was in that exact same space. They were there, occupying the same place, one after the other. And he came to me, bringing the life and energy of two people--at least. Almost as though she left a part of herself there and he brought it to me.

I wrote her part. And it was cathartic and hard. I'm certain it'll never amount to anything but I wanted it for my children. In case I get hit by a bus before they're adults. Maybe, if they read it one day, they will be able to fully comprehend what she means to me. I think, perhaps, if they can grasp what Kate means--Kate who was mine such a short time--maybe they will be able to break through the surface of my love for them and realize there is no end to that ocean.

Kate,
I miss every moment I imagined we'd have together. The story I'm writing is for you, the girl God promised me. You are still changing me, still softening my edges, still teaching me things. I wish I could have "holded" you in there so you did not die. But I do not question the Author. He is still writing my story and you are such a big part of it. I love you, girl in the ground. And I love that your spirit soars on. Here's to five years being changed, again and anew, by the memory of you.

Love,
Mom