Baby Mine…

Baby mine, don’t you cry.

Baby mine, dry your eyes.

Rest your head close to my heart,

Never to part, baby of mine.

Little one, when you play,

Pay no heed what they say.

Cause you’re so special to me,

Sweet as can be, baby of mine.

If they knew all about you,

They’d end up loving you, too.

All those same people who scold you,

What they’d give just for the right to hold you.

From your hair down to your toes,

You’re not much, goodness knows.

But, you’re so precious to me,

Sweet as can be, baby of mine.

This was the lullaby I sang to all of my children as babies.  As they got older not so much, except for Myesha.  She was my child that struggled the most with peers and was often picked on because of her weight.  So this song was the one of choice when she would cry herself to sleep as I sat on the side of her bed and brushed her hair back away from her face with my fingers until she fell asleep.

If only grief were as simple as closing a door or turning off a light switch.  As time passes the emotions never seem to heal that void, that longing to have our child back.  Time does not heal all wounds. I mean who really came up with that line of shit anyways. As a grieving parent our world has now crashed down around us, and no amount of glue will ever put things back together like they once were. Family pictures are dreaded because it’s hard to call it a family picture when a part of our family is missing.  It’s an empty chair that will never be used again at the dinner table.  A spot on the couch that was our child’s favorite that will never seem the same without them in it.  A towel that gets washed that was once their favorite, that now we feel guilty for continuing to use.  Oh yeah, even a towel. All the unexpected triggers that go off like bombs that take us to our knees.

As I try to declutter my life I find it becomes increasingly harder now because I just can’t seem to throw away anything that Myesha made, in fact I can’t throw away anything that was hers now.  Just a few weeks ago I went through a backpack full of her stuff and with the backpack was an old body pillow and a bed pillow.  I shoved each of them to my face as hard as I could to try and find a small glimmer of hope that they would still smell like her.  But they didn’t.  Yet I still couldn’t get rid of them.  A pillow.  An old ass silly pillow.  But THAT pillow was still a pillow that my beautiful baby girl would curl up with every night.  A pillow that probably caught a few of her tears that I missed and heard so many secrets that as parents we are not to find out about.  A pillow that has no purpose anymore except to serve as one more token of reality that my child is gone.

There are times I can feel Myesha’s presence around me.  She shows me signs that she is close and is watching over us. I know she is still with me, but I just wish I could have more.  I’m selfish like that I guess.  I want to hear her voice.  I want to feel her arms wrapped around me and squeezing me tight.  God I want to hear her laugh again and be silly with her. Make jokes that will have us both laughing until our stomachs hurt and we have tears streaming down our faces.  I want to jump in the van and roll down the windows and sing with her.  I want to turn the radio on in the kitchen and cook Sunday breakfast with her.  Dance in the kitchen. I want to brush her hair, her beautiful, thick, soft, curly hair.  All the times I complained about braiding it or flat ironing it, has now left me with such a since of guilty.

I bought watermelon flavored Twizzlers the other day (another trigger) and all I could think about was how if she knew I had some they would quickly disappeared. It’s those little things I took for granted, the little things that eat away at me the most sometimes.

What I wouldn’t give to have that front door open one more time and hear, “MOM, I’M HOME!!”

Mommy Loves You Myesha