imaginary candles for a real life

she would've been six years old today. convinced this baby was a girl and carrying the most basic of my habits to always be meticulously on time - if not a bit early - she would've shown up just as hoped for on her december 2nd birthdate.

i would've watched her trot off to kindergarten this past fall. settling into the dramatic process of making friends and absorbing all the wonderful things the start of school brings. we would've attended her first conferences by now. sat beaming at her first school concert, waving when she smiled a grin i imagine would've been minus a tooth or two.

she would've been my excuse to play barbies again and to believe in fairies. to wander through the girls' departments and buy pink dresses and shirts adorned with hearts. i'd have let her grow her hair, which, if my sons are any indication, would've been a shade of dark blonde neither my husband or i can trace to its origins. hair as long as she may have wanted. thick and with maybe a hint of curl, i'd have been able to smell the lavender scented shampoo after a bath when i brushed it and put it up in pigtails.

i believe she would have attached herself to my love of books and we'd be working our way through "ramona the brave" now. naturally, she'd stick the tip of her tongue out between her lips while sounding out a word in her head. that would be the habit she'd have picked up from her dad, who consistently does it while deep in thought or just mowing the lawn, and who passed it on to his sons.

much as i imagine what she'd be like today, i imagine i'm the only one who still thinks of her when this date plants itself on my calendar. every year and on every calendar, i write the name we gave her on the square for december 2nd, and tick off another consecutive year. the first year brought cards and calls from family and friends, who let me cry and were honest when they said they didn't know what it was like for me, but would simply listen. my oldest son, then barely three, didn't get it (there was nothing "to get," really, because there was never a baby sister to see the day after i'd told him he was going to be a big brother), but he handed me a cake he and my husband purchased so we could acknowledge her, then threw in a hug.

for various reasons too gory and longwinded to get into here, i mourned this child with racking sobs for such a long time after the nurse went silent. i screamed at a god i was just (just!) starting to believe might be true. now? who knows. maybe. but i'm not truly thrilled with the idea that these types of losses and hurts are mapped out for us before we ourselves ever take our first breath. i've still not quite put my finger on what life lesson i was to learn from this experience.

we don't really talk about her, but i don't forget her. she'd have been six years old today. probably just as truly frustrating and fascinating as my sons. without a doubt, on some day i thought would never end, i'd have wondered why i thought i should've had children, and that thought would have stayed with me until i got the hug that was the unspoken apology i needed.

i never held her, but she's always been there, in a sense, pressed up to my chest and near my heart.

it's just a bit heavier today.