One morning, as I changed your diaper on the lovely wooden table shipped up from your god mother in North Carolina, a sharp pain stabbed into my chest and I broke down crying. I held onto you from your tummy so you would not roll away. The summer sun burst in from the nursery windows. You cooed happily and kicked your pudgy legs and tiny feet into the air. At this moment I realized you were now the same age I was when I came to the US.
Just three and a half months, they say. That’s good. No time to remember. You were raised here from the start then.
But I recalled the moment you landed safely in my arms, how I exclaimed through my tears, “I know you!”
I remembered when the anesthesiologist who administered my epidural come in to meet you, an hour old. I could not stop crying, would not let you go.
How it pained me now to think of a woman who carries a child, nurtures him, loves and soothes him while he grows to term. And never has the privilege to love him in the flesh.
Grief is a visitor who comes calling wherever one is, however unexpectedly.
And it seems odd but true, he is closely related to Joy.