On the way in to church this morning, a woman coming out stopped to see how big Kathleen was getting. "And I'm sure big brother Henry is watching over her," she said.
Welling up
For a long time, I couldn't go to church without crying. For almost a year, I cried every time I went to mass—and on the rare occasion I didn't, Brian did. Sometimes it was a song, or the sight of the baptismal font, or seeing another baby, or the flash of memory of his tiny coffin in the center aisle. . .
Since Kathleen's arrival, I have not cried as often in church. She is a distraction, from the mass itself and from the things that make me cry. But today, I sobbed. I have no idea why. I was holding Kathleen, her heavy body, sticky and sweaty. She slumped against me in a nap. And I started crying.
Most days, I do okay. Most times I can identify the trigger the sets me off, but sometimes the sorrow, the tears just well up from so deep within and erupt out of no where.
A Prayer
I offer up this girl,
with her smiles
her strength
her health.
I offer her up
in awe and wonder,
praise and gratitude.
I offer her up
with this plea:
Please, let her stay here with me.
Let her stay healthy.
Let her stay happy.
Let her stay.
Please.
