"You"

Where are you? Do you hear me? Have you been watching me all these years? Do your stories include me? Do you look like me? What kind of personality do you have? Are you boisterous like our sister or reserved like our brother? Or are you somewhere in between those characteristics as I am? What are your passions? What were your dreams? Have you made them all come true?

Do you love me? Do you get frustrated with me? Do you ever want to hug me? Have you felt my fervent need for you to be in my life? Do you comprehend the void you left? Who decided that you shouldn't be with us, anyway? Was it your choice? Was being in our lives going to be too painful for you to deal with? Could you see into the future, and yell out, "Halt?" Or did you come back to us in bits and pieces, fleshed out inside each of us? Did you know you left a literal and lasting imprint in our mother's head and heart? She never got over you, you know...

When I heard about the way you left, I was devastated. Nobody deserved for it to be that way...cold, painful, downright undignified! Unspeakable.

I suppose we were all ripped apart that day and left only with emptiness and longing for what would never be. But I want you to know, I miss the you I will never know. The you that could have been. The you that I still want in my life.

I've imagined you as a child, loved and spoiled. I've wondered what kind of shenanigans you would have gotten yourself in as a teenager. Would we have been in trouble together? You would have been the one who would have held the brunt of responsibility, being the elder of us, but I'm sure I was the one who probably egged you onwards. But I'm pretty sure I always felt safe and protected around you.

I have dreamt of you as a husband and father... and in my mind, I have seen your kids and mine playing together, giggling and running about.

I'm so very sorry that those times will never be. But I hope it gives you some comfort to know what is in my heart. I want you to know how important you were to me. And to all of us.

You were meant to be the firstborn. But that bumpy, long ride that our mother had to take to get groceries took an all too costly toll on you. It was hard to say when the cramping had started, though. But it continued throughout the day. By evening, our mother convinced herself that all she needed was a bowel movement. It was fortunate that our grandmother had been at our house visiting. She heard our mother scream from the bathroom and rushed to help. There you were, a tiny creature, but far enough along so they could tell you were a boy. In shock, they just flushed. And you were no more.

No name, no burial. No beginning. Just a terrible ending.

A couple of years passed by and our mother got pregnant again...this time with me. Our father would say over and over again that he prayed for a daughter. I suppose that was his way of telling you he missed you, too.

They would go on to have yet another son and daughter. There would have been four of us. But nobody ever took your place. We still remembered you.

I never asked if they had picked a name for you. I didn't want to bring up anymore pain. I should have, though. I'm forever sad that I will never know your name...unless you decide to tell me, somehow/someway!

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For all that feel the loss from a miscarriage...