Yesterday, on my 37th birthday, I woke up to the sound of little feet running toward my bed.
“Happy birthday Mama!” Scarlett yelled, her face nearly hidden behind the gifts she was holding. My face was also hidden, behind my breathing mask, and although I wanted to scoop her up and snuggle her, all I could really do was watch her and smile.
Rob unhooked my mask, took off my foot braces, and raised our adjustable bed so I could sit up to open my gifts. Scarlett was most excited about the one she had wrapped herself. It was one of her stuffed animals, a beanie goat who has the same birthday as me.
To be unable to open your arms to your child, is there a word to describe this? I would say it’s unbearable, but of course that’s not true. Nothing that you live through is unbearable. Scarlett climbed in bed next to me and we looked out the window together: ocean, a valley of sleepy houses, the cotton candy sky.
“Look at all the old memories in the sky,” she said.
Whoa, I thought. But what I said was, “What do they look like?” Read More>