Just Two.

“How many kids do you have?”

“Just two” I say. 

They ask my children’s names. 

“Oh perfect, a girl and a boy!”

I don’t tell them. It’s easier that way. 

I wish they wouldn’t ask. But they do.

It used to physically pain me. 

To lie? To not tell them about you?

How could I? 

But no one knows what to say.

The conversation ends. 

So, yes. Now I lie. 

I keep you to myself, share you only with people who deserve to know about you. 

You don’t have to be for everyone. 

You’re our baby. 

Ours to keep. 

People ask, “Are you going to have more?” 

“No,” I say. “We’re done.”

They ask why.

I don’t tell them. It’s easier that way. 

I don’t tell them about you. 

I don’t tell them about your brother.  

My first and third babies. 

I don’t tell them that the children they see aren’t my only ones. 

That I’m so tired. 

I’m tired of being pregnant. 

I’m tired of my babies dying. 

I’m tired of worrying if my babies will live. 

I’m tired. 

We are happy. 

Your brother and sister fill us with joy. 

You do, too, my little love. It’s just different. 

They laugh. We smile. 

We see a cardinal. We smile. 

We feel almost whole again. 

But the missing pieces are too big.

I wonder why it has to be this way. 

That every magical moment is tinged with grief. 

That every milestone is one you’ll never make. 

And yet. 

We carry on. 

Is our family complete? 

Yes. 

And no. 

You aren’t here. 

They are here. 

We exist on different planes, in different worlds. 

I look for you everywhere in this world. In my space. 

You’re everywhere but nowhere. 

I don’t get to rock you to sleep at night. 

But I have held every one of you in my hands, in my arms. 

And I have loved every one of you since the very beginning.

Just a speck of hope. 

All ours. 

“Just two” I say. 

It’s okay. 

I know you are mine. 

You know I am yours. 

And I will look for you. 

Always. 

In this life and the next. 

Where we can all be together. 

Complete and whole.