Hope

I am terrified of trying again. That familair copper tastes fills my mouth at the thought of having a sonogram. The monthly doppler search for a heart beat makes me reach for a bowl.

The giant has me cornered, and I am cowered in his presence.

My final thoughts the moments before they took Grace from me, or perhaps I dreamed, was of seeing her run down the hall with her brothers, their bare feet slapping the wood floor in unison like a tribal chant; my voice calling their names, Solo, Eli, Jonas, Gracie Beth; a name so foreign, but so perfect.

Then I dreamed another dream of a recovery room filled with all my family, and my husband's family, and my sweet friend's there to share the joy after the pain, there waiting for me, and Caleb, and baby number 5. I watched the Doctor that had wept with us and prayed with us and for us to find joy again, lift a baby from my belly and raise her high above the sheet. She was weeping and I was weeping and my husband was weeping. Right there, in that second, the sorrowful tears shifted to joyful ones. I can feel the shift now.

Take that, Giant. I still have hope.

You should be arriving any day.I force myself to stop pretending that you still are. Dreaming for even a minute of your weight in my arms, your mouth rooting towards my breast, your long fingers curled tight, turns to nightmare.

When I was little my dad taught me how to control my dreams. I was just a girl and could turn chase on villans, create weapons out of air, change the story I was writing in my sleep, but I can not bring her back, not even in my dreams; like Anne Shirley and her red hair that could not be imagined away.