Ironically you were named after the goddess of strength. Day after day your mother would look at you and wonder if it was possible that science had erred for the better. Surely, there were scores of cases where babies fought against the odds and went-on to survive and grow-up and have a normal life. Could she dare to dream the same for you, her tiny little one ? Before going to sleep, the last sight she would have was that of you, sleeping peacefully in your cot and she would tick-off another day. Another day you had survived. Or lived ? She willed herself to not dream about the distant future where she would teach you to read and write, bequeath her huge collection of books to you, arrange your birthday parties and have heart-to-heart mother-daughter conversations. She bargained with God that she would not ask anything for herself, if only God would let you live. Surely that wasn't too much for a mother to ask for ?
During her moments of despair, she would look with at you with a single-minded concentration, as if trying to memorize every little detail of your being and consign them to her memory. She knew she would need them. Photographs weren't enough. She would whisper words of encouragement in your ears, and clasp your tiny hands in hers, as if those words and the physical connection would somehow magically transform into strength that you so needed. She would hold you to her heart and hoped that you would know how much you were loved and needed in her life.
As you began to lose the fight for your life, your mother talked to you about her own childhood and growing-up, the work she did, the aspirations she had, knowing that there was so much to tell you and so little time. She wanted you to leave the world with some memories, if it were at all possible for a two-year old to have any. Even on the last day, she held back her tears, remembering that you would always looked around to jump into someone else's lap the moment your mother would cry, as if you could not stand her crying. As she held your hand for one last time, her lips moved in a silent prayer. Perhaps she prayed for you, for one last time, for a safe journey into the other world. Or perhaps she finally prayed for herself, for the strength she would need to fight her grief.
****
As I write this, I know you will have gone far far away from us. You have been a brave baby, you have fought hard and shown strength and resilience that we adults can only imagine and hope to have. Perhaps the source of your name was not so ironical after-all. But it was just not enough. When I was first told that you were going to come into this world, and the due-date was near my birthday, I wanted your mother to have you on the same day that I was born, so that you and I could celebrate the day together. But I guess you were in a bit of a hurry to arrive and you did, a full 48 hours in advance. You were the 21st-century baby of our family and I felt a little more older and wiser as I held you in my arms. For the record, I could foresee your mother being the strict parent, so I made full plans of spoiling you rotten.
As I write this and think about you, I can only pray and hope that you think that your time in this world has been worthy, in-spite of the pain and suffering that you endured. We all take strength from thinking that you are in a better place now without any of the suffering that you went through. You leave us with a lifetime of happy memories, making the world we live, a bit more poignantly beautiful place.
During her moments of despair, she would look with at you with a single-minded concentration, as if trying to memorize every little detail of your being and consign them to her memory. She knew she would need them. Photographs weren't enough. She would whisper words of encouragement in your ears, and clasp your tiny hands in hers, as if those words and the physical connection would somehow magically transform into strength that you so needed. She would hold you to her heart and hoped that you would know how much you were loved and needed in her life.
As you began to lose the fight for your life, your mother talked to you about her own childhood and growing-up, the work she did, the aspirations she had, knowing that there was so much to tell you and so little time. She wanted you to leave the world with some memories, if it were at all possible for a two-year old to have any. Even on the last day, she held back her tears, remembering that you would always looked around to jump into someone else's lap the moment your mother would cry, as if you could not stand her crying. As she held your hand for one last time, her lips moved in a silent prayer. Perhaps she prayed for you, for one last time, for a safe journey into the other world. Or perhaps she finally prayed for herself, for the strength she would need to fight her grief.
****
As I write this, I know you will have gone far far away from us. You have been a brave baby, you have fought hard and shown strength and resilience that we adults can only imagine and hope to have. Perhaps the source of your name was not so ironical after-all. But it was just not enough. When I was first told that you were going to come into this world, and the due-date was near my birthday, I wanted your mother to have you on the same day that I was born, so that you and I could celebrate the day together. But I guess you were in a bit of a hurry to arrive and you did, a full 48 hours in advance. You were the 21st-century baby of our family and I felt a little more older and wiser as I held you in my arms. For the record, I could foresee your mother being the strict parent, so I made full plans of spoiling you rotten.
As I write this and think about you, I can only pray and hope that you think that your time in this world has been worthy, in-spite of the pain and suffering that you endured. We all take strength from thinking that you are in a better place now without any of the suffering that you went through. You leave us with a lifetime of happy memories, making the world we live, a bit more poignantly beautiful place.
