Moments Frozen in Time.

One night, when Lily was two years old, we played hide and seek. I hid in my bedroom, under the bed. She came tromping into the room, stood still for a moment, swiveled her head back and forth and then stumped, she uttered, "they hide so good."

My mind swelled with this new discovery that Lily was a person. No longer a baby, or a blob, but a bonafide human being with a mind and conscious thoughts. She was not parroting something she heard us say to her. She was not responding to a question directed at her. She was drawing her own conclusion about the situation.

I lay frozen in my hiding place, marveling at this creature, this sentient being that was my child - a baby blob no longer.

Dreams

I dream in color and my dreams are vivid. I've been dreaming about Tim. It's the same scenario each time - he's dying. I can't stop it and the grief is overwhelming - but not unbearable. Even though I know he is slipping away, I have time - time to tell him how much I love him. How his life impacted mine. How his friendship changed me. How his love saved me. How our friendship gave me my best friend.

Even now, as I grieve with her, I am in awe of Jana. I read her updates and I marvel at her reflections and her insight. Tim's words ring true, she is the wisest woman I know.

Her eloquence is a gift. She writes from a place of revelation and growth. She wishes that she could dream of Tim and I wish that I could dream of Anabelle. If only for a moment, to feel her in my arms, to hang onto some memory that doesn't include pain, suffering and farewell.

I envy Tim in one way. He is where she is. He sees her in perfection. No suffering. No more dying.

I struggle with the brevity of her life. I long to have something permanent to cling to. Some monument that states she lived. But the reality is that she didn't - not outside my body. Her death certificate may say that she lived for 12 hours and 10 minutes but I know the truth. In my heart, in my being, I know she died inside of me. The fact that they started her heart pumping and a machine expanded and contracted her lungs are just details. She slipped away suddenly, violently, in the early hours of February 20, 2007. How I wish I could have given her a peaceful parting.

In my longed for dream, she is 3 years old. Her chubbly little fingers cling tightly to mine as we tour her pre-school. In the fall, she will let go of my fingers and grasp onto those of her teacher. She will learn her letters, make new friends and grow up. She has a whole life ahead of her. New sneakers and backpack. Little love notes in her lunchbox. Her short dark curls bouncing as she skips through the classroom door. One last look back at me. She blows kisses to me. I catch them with my heart and she steps out of sight.