Tell me
What was her eyes like? Did you see them sparkle when she blinks her tiny eyes? Tell me about her skin. Have you touched her? Did you feel her soft, delicate, wrinkled skin? What about her little feet, her tiny toes, all of them small. Her little hands, tiny fists folded. Would she sometimes open her hands, spread her fingers and reach for her face, or her mom? What was her smile like? Did you ever catch her smile in her sleep? Did you watch her fall asleep?
I miss you, little one. I wish someone would tell me how you were like. Who you looked like, mom, dad or even me. Your first cousin 24 years older who requested you be named after her, for you and I share the same birthday and who for the first time in her life was given a reason to look forward to her next birthday if only to celebrate it with you. I haven't even seen a picture of yours. Did I take you for granted? Should I have caught a flight, train, bus or just anything and paid you a visit right after they first told me about you. You arrived on earth 4 months early, and left a hundred years earlier. We couldn't wait to bring you home and you left for the heavens and kept us waiting. You took a piece of my soul with you, though I never had the chance to meet you, know you, hold your frail little body, kiss your baby feet, I know a part of me left with you. You left your mother's womb early, now you have left the world even earlier. Why did you not stay my beautiful child? Why didn't you give us the chance to watch you grow, change, age, discover, love, explore? I envy those who got to see you once. You barely had any contact with outside world, you never made it out of the hospital's intensive care unit, you weren't free to breathe or feed on your own, you needed ventilation and tubes to feed you milk. But you lived past our expectations, the doctors' predictions, and several prayers and right when we were beginning to believe you will be home in no time and we could see you, touch you any time we want to without taking permissions or waiting, you leave. You survived almost non-functional lungs, lots of pain and medications, and we thought you were going to make it, your premature body failed.
I wanted to see you just once. If what they promise us is right, that we'll meet whomever we lose to death again in the hereafter, you are the one I want to see first.
Another February. Another baby. Same hospital. Respiratory failure.
May God give strength to your grieving parents. I mourn you, angel. Can't wait to meet you again. Hope the stains in my soul wouldn't prevent me from hugging your pure self.
