We didn’t get the chance to know you.
We dreamt of you. We planned for you.
We picked out a name for you: Lauren, because I was sure you were a girl.
We told your big sister who was too little to understand, that you were with us.
But it was early. Admittedly, too early.
Because the morning sickness never came.
My belly never became a bump.
Instead, I cramped up inside that Saturday morning.
I went to coffee with my friends, thinking it was all good.
Forcing you to maintain your existence. Denying that you might leave.
And when I got home, I knew.
I told your dad it was time to go.
We waited at the hospital with the injured, the sick. Those still alive, but in pain.
Until the doctor told us with sad eyes, “It’s a lot of blood.”
Yeah, I knew.
I felt sorry for him. Sorry that he had to be the one to tell us.
And more sorry that we didn’t get to know you.
He said that your little, teeny tiny self, was morphed.
He said you knew it, and my body knew it.
And so, there we were
In a moment where your life started, your life stopped,
And life continued on
without you.

Now, when I think of you
I think of the purple flowers we planted for you.
Under an almost-blue sky,
With a bird soaring above,
His wide wings spanning the white clouds.
The cold air, sharp on our faces,
while we dug through the clay,
And spread roots into the ground.

If our only purpose was to bring you into this world,
Just so you could move onto the next,
then I am okay with that.
What more could I want for you?
And although we have another now,
I promise I won’t forget you.
Our sweet baby we don’t know.