Have I told you?

Your giggle bubbles from your mouth even as you tumble face-first into the soft grass, your wobbly, dimpled toddler legs still unable to keep up with your joy of running through the sunshine. I laugh too, call out to you to be careful. You rise unsteadily, fists clasping mounds of new spring grass and black dirt, which you promptly throw in the air, delighted with the fresh smell, the squiggling earthworms, the small taste of freedom.

The sunlight reflects off your blonde hair; your slightly turned-down blue eyes just like mine, the music of your laugh so familiar it both hurts and brings an endless grin to my face.

Have I told you I dreamed this same scene before I knew about you? The scent of lilacs, your hiccupping giggles, your little towhead so bright, bobbing just out of my reach. The dream is how I knew, days later, when a pregnancy test confirmed you were there, that I would name you for your great-grandfather.

Not that I could tell anyone about you, or your name. Not then, not that early. Your maternal grandmother has always disliked her own name, Elsie. Too old-fashioned, too country, too OLD. I had a friend in high school who shared a name with her father, and Mom would scoff anytime I mentioned him. "Harvey," making a face, "who would do that to their child?"

But from the moment I knew you existed, I knew who you were. You had his independent spirit, his fierce love.

Harvey.

Have I told you he saved my life, just two years after his own death? I was driving on an empty country road during the golden hour, orange rays of sun and insects spattered across the windshield obscuring my view when I heard his voice as clearly as I ever have. "Hey Kid," he said, "Kid look."

Have I told you he called me, called all twenty seven of his grandchildren, Kid? He would joke it was because there were too many of us to bother remembering names. But we knew better; we knew who we were, how loved we were.

Confused, I slowed the car, turned off the classic country on the rural New Mexico station. Then louder, "Hey Kid, LOOK." Just in time I saw the giant buck step into the road. Huge brown eyes, so like those of your namesake, gazed right into mine.

He always protected his loves. He still does.

I lost you at nine weeks. Too early, they said, to know who you were, to know your name.

But I knew you.

I've heard from those trying to be kind that miscarriages show mercy to a life that can't survive outside the womb.

No.

Instead I chose this: When a soul has completed its journey, achieved perfection, there is no need to be born.

When he calls you Kid (and he will,) don't be sad, don't think for a moment that he doesn't know your name.

He knows exactly who you are.