Today, sitting outside at a cafe on Grand Avenue, I met a two-month old baby, Stella, her mother, and her grandmother. We chatted under the shade of a tree, while Stella followed her grandmother’s words with her blue gray eyes, alert to every syllable.
I couldn’t help but think of my own granddaughters, their mother, Meghan, and their aunt, Maya. Today, is Maya’s 42nd birthday. Trying to imagine my 19-year-old as a middle-aged woman, perhaps with daughters of her own, blows my mind. For those who loved her, Maya will always be as young, beautiful, and vivacious as the day she died. She will never age. But in real life, she would have.
Born on October 4, 1972, a beautiful fall day in Minneapolis, Maya grew into a chubby, often bubbly, sometimes moody little girl. People who remember her may recall different facets of Maya, but today, I’m remembering the little china doll I held in my arms as a newborn. Looking into her eyes, the future seemed limitless.
When she died I lost the future I had envisioned and hoped to be a part of and I’m left wondering, “Who would Maya be now?”
It’s easy to imagine a glowing life for Maya. But reality might have played out differently. Whatever I may fantasize about Maya’s life I must ultimately surrender to that very large basket of “things to let go of.”
But aren’t we always re-imagining the past? The poet Chana Bloch wrote a book called “The Past Keeps Changing.” In one of the poems, these lines appear:
Everything happens only once but
I go on asking, and asking is
the quickest way back.
So when I ask my daughter – or the spirit of her – who she would be now, I go back to a hospital bed in Minneapolis, to my 24-year-old self, holding a tiny mite of a girl in my arms. She weighs just over five pounds, but her grip is strong, and she looks up at my face and blinks as I mouth words at her. She seems to understand my cooing and little snatches of song.
As Stella’s grandmother mouths words at her, I watch and remember. This language we speak to babies is universal and eternal. I celebrate everything about Maya, even the unknown person she would be now and the untested future I’m living into. As long as it holds babies, I’m good with that.
Dear Ellie,
I will write you a letter. Ilike that better than e-mail. Ingrid.
Beautiful words. Your writing is always so deep, with a touch of sadness and all the colors of the rainbow mixed together.
Beautiful Maya. I think she would have gone on to have lived a colorful, full life.
I think about my sister Eileen too. Her death at 34 was the most shocking and sad time of my life. Her passing left so many of us with empty arms and hearts. 10 years have passed and she is still missed. Sometimes grief still reaches out from no where and pulls you under again.
There are no words……….
Patti, thank you. I keep looking for the words, and somehow, they appear.
Eleanor. You capture the unfathomable nature of grief and loss in this lovely reflection.
Thank you, Susan. I appreciate you visiting and leaving a comment.
Eleanor, poignant and beautiful! A mother’s heart doesn’t let go of that child separated from her by death, distance, or time. For 12 years my son and I were kept apart by his now ex-wife. I always wondered about that 12 years and still do — who was he, what did he live through, how did he change without my knowing. He’s now Maya’s age and although I had different dreams for him, I still have him. My loss of time with him doesn’t compare to your loss at all. I share it so you know that in a very small way I do understand your imaginings. Hugs to you.
Sherrey, thank you for this. There are many ways to “lose” a child, and they are all painful. I’m so sorry that you experienced this kind of loss, and hope you and your son find a good way forward.
Absolutely beautiful, Eleanor. This is such an eloquent tribute to that precious mother-daughter bond and to all the hopes and dreams you had for Maya. Thanks for sharing. Sending hugs your way.
Kathy, thanks for your support. Much appreciated.
Simply beautiful, Eleanor. Thank you for sharing a little of Maya with us.
I love sharing Maya! Thanks for stopping by.
Once again, you capture the many layers of losing a child. Thanks, Eleanor. I wonder who Katie would be, too.
September – thank you for reading and commenting. I think all of us who’ve experienced the loss of a child will forever wonder and imagine. I’m sorry for the loss of your precious Katie.