Every year, I’m reminded of what would have been.
Would you have turned out loving music like Jaye or picked up my artistry?
Would you have acquired his sense of humor or my raging temper?
Would you have loved chocolate like he did or coffee like I do?
Would you have inherited his chiseled cheeks or my chubby cheeks?
Would your room be littered with blue or splashed with pink?
Could you perhaps have been a twin?
These and many more I would never get to know.
I never had the chance to call you Alex or Maxine or Chrysolite; names I had chosen for you long, long ago.
Many nights I lay in bed, holding back my tears and hugging my pillow, wishing it was you.
As the years roll by, the heaviness in my heart seems to build up.
More so, considering the fact that I was the writer of my own fate.
I didn’t have to let you go but I did.
I’d never forget lying on that bed as they prepared to bring you out of my body.
A situation that was supposed to be a joyful moment.
Only you were just four weeks old and barely formed.
I wasn’t ready to be a mother and I took the easy way out.
Or so I thought.
But here I am, with thoughts of you clouding my head day in, day out.
I see other children and think of what would have been.
If only I could turn back the hands of time.
If only I could go back to tell my younger self not to run away from my responsibility.
Because ten years down the line without you, I’m still a mother.
Only that I’m a mother to a dead child.