MaKenna
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Three and a half hours. Two hundred and ten minutesbetween helloand a goodbyeno mother should everhave to learn. People measure timein birthdays,in milestones,in anniversariesthat mark the passingof another year. I learned to measure yoursin minutes. A number so smallit could fitinside an ordinary afternoon. An appointment.A long drive.A movie. Things the worldcan lose three hours…
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Before the world knewhow little timeit would give us, you belonged to mein a way no clockcould measure. Beneath my ribs,there was a daughter. A whole little universefolded into the darknessof my body. I had already begunthe quiet work of loving you. The kind that happensbefore introductions,before birthdays,before anyone elsecan understandthat a mother has alreadymade…
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I have almost heard your footstepsin a hallway full of children. Almost imagined your laughterrising above the television,your voice arguing with your brothersover somethingnone of you would rememberby morning. I have almost boughtthe extra Christmas present. Almost pictured another backpackleaning crookedly against the wall. Almost called out five nameswhen supper was ready,forgetting, for one merciful…
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Midnight comes,and the calendar turnslike it hasn’t done anything wrong. October seventeenth. The world is asleep,but somewhere inside mea woman is still becoming a motherto a little girlshe will have to learnhow to love without holding. Eleven years. I have lived whole livessince the day you were born. I have packed lunches,washed blankets,kissed scraped knees,survived…
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Grief is complex and personal, intertwining joy and pain; survival alone signifies resilience amidst profound loss and enduring memories.
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A mother writes to the daughter she held for only hours, imagining the girl she might have become and loving her through every unanswered question.
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A daughter held for only moments remains woven through every year, every sibling, and every piece of love that followed.
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A sleepless mother searches photographs and memory for pieces of the daughter she had too little time to know.
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A mother finally learns the medical name behind her daughter’s loss—and begins laying down guilt that was never hers to carry.
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The author reflects on the simultaneous joy and grief of motherhood, remembering a daughter lost years ago while cherishing moments with her living children. Despite the passage of time, the love for her departed child persists, intertwined with gratitude for the present, emphasizing that joy and sorrow can coexist in a mother’s heart.
