I wrote this a few years ago for a writing prompt and an re-publishing it for two reasons. One, I still like it. Two, March 11th is the day I became a mother.
Happy Birthday to my little baby.
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Sunday, November 21, 2004
I never really thought about writing love letters before. I wrote poems (many bad), short stories (again, many bad), and essays (mostly really good, in my humble opinion) on all sorts of subjects. But on the subject of love, mostly (very, very bad) poems. It was the teen angst kind of “what is love”, “will anyone love me”, “poor lovelorn me” sort of thing. Nothing deep, well unless you are 16, nothing racy, nothing stirring. Reading the words now in my old battered journal, they look like the words of any kid who works by my side on the weekends. They could relate to what I wrote a half a life time ago. Now it seems, well, sort of Judy Blume-ish.
So, I have been thinking about love letters, thanks to ex_cearulo, who linked to sarahndipidee’s site, where Sarah, days ago, suggested writing one.
Anyhow, without much more ado, here is my attempt to convey my love in words;
Dear Timothy;
You may not ever believe me when I tell you I loved you before we met. Cliche as it sounds; it is true, as all cliches are in one way or another.
Tonight, I opened the door to Orion. The stars so bright in the cool night, so near, so much like the night before I knew we would meet. That night I denied you would ever come. I went to work, until I knew for sure I had to go home, pressed into leaving early by concerned co-workers. I worked the night shift; it was about midnight when I arrived in our gravel drive. I parked the car under the huge old maple, stripped of its leaves for winter, and looked at the stars. They were as tonight, so bright, the sky so clear. I stood in the frosty grass, holding my huge belly, looking up at the stars, wishing I could show you the beauty of the late winter night.
You were not to arrive until the next evening. A beautiful, sunny day passed without you seeing it. But I did. From the warmth of the birthing pool, I watched the sun rise. From the brass bed you were at long last born into the world on, I could see the stars out the window. The day long wait was worth it.
I did not see you at first. It was not how I imagined; the baby placed cooing on my chest while Darling Husband and Midwife looked on with adoration. Instead, the midwife pulled you out, took the cord from around your neck, your arm, and breathed life into you. Aldo held you first. I have the picture, with the clock on the wall above you both. 7:45pm. My first glimpse of you. Etched in my mind forever, with or without a photograph.
Now, with Orion climbing into the sky above your bedroom years later I look at you and still see that tiny baby. You look at me like I am crazy when I kiss your head and tell you that you will always be my baby. But I can still almost smell the baby you in your hair.
I always knew I had so much love to give away, and I thank God you take as much as I can give. I watch you sleep, under your carefully selected fuzzy green blanket, and I want to just drink you in forever. I know now that you will never know the enormity of the love I have for you until you have a child of your own, but I have faith that will happen. You will know. And then I will give you this letter.
I Love You.
2 Comments
March 10, 2009 at 11:23 pm
That is beautiful. I am crying here. Lovely!
May 12, 2009 at 3:41 pm
That is absolutely beautiful. *sniffle*