This evening, the world is spellbound by fog. I can’t see the field where rose-gold light often pools in the morning and the farmer’s cattle nose mounds of hay. No colors of twilight to gild the decaying trees. Earlier, the sky spun out fat, airy snowflakes, bits of cotton floating down to soften Earth’s surface. Must have been an hour that I rocked and rocked in the wicker chair and held your sister to my chest, her eyes blinking slowly at the falling sky, even as I felt you swimming in my womb.
Those are the moments that remind me how beautiful is this gift called motherhood. You, embraced by me as much as Rosé was, with me as much as Rosé was, even though I can’t yet see you. I think unborn life this second time is even more surreal than the first. We know the joy Rosé has brought us—immense joy—and it’s difficult to fathom how another child will gift us with yet more joy, but in a different form. What will set you apart from your sister, and how will you mirror her? What beauty will you unfold in our life through your life?
Somehow, I will again fall in love in a moment and come to know the secret pathways of a garden never yet known by anyone but God, an unrepeatable soul. I am moved to stunned silence at the responsibility your existence—and Rosé’s existence—demands of your father and me. You wouldn’t be if we hadn’t aided the Creator in His craft. We’ve set you into eternal motion. You’ll never not be. You will know God and His love—greater than any pain—because you now are.
In a sense, I feel as if I am Mary, carrying miraculous life in my womb. How can this be?
You exist, sweet nameless one, because even before I, your mother, existed, He was.