Four

Four and a half years ago they could no longer find your heartbeat. Two appointments, then three.

Four and a half years ago you stopped growing on their screen.

Four and a half years ago your mother’s hormones stopped multiplying. She’s never been good at math.

Four and a half years ago, the warm blue spring sky opened and I talked to god.

I asked for your life. I prayed for your life. I called my sister, I called my best friend. I broke down. They were not saying it out loud, but we had to. They didn’t want to be the bearers.

They sent us to a specialist. He spent what seemed like a year telling us of his sister and her four miscarriages before four straight perfect babies.

1234, snap of a finger. We said nothing. I’d never not had words before.

He spread the gel over your mother’s belly, he asked her to take a breath, and in that moment your heart beat boomed as loud as the timpani.

It was symphonic. It was one of the most important moments of my life. In your heartbeat I found faith. 

Happy Birthday, our little miracle, I love you infinitely.