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Crying For My Baby


by Becky Groska
in memory of Caitlin Jean Hogan
b/d 11-17-95

My heart has been broken for nearly a year
My face cannot hide the pain I feel inside.
It's been just a year since you've been gone.
Does anyone know?
Does anyone remember what happened last year?
Does anyone care that my heart has been bleeding for all this time?
Will anyone call me that day to say they are thinking of me, and to see
how I am doing?

My friends should know. I keep telling them, when they ask how I am doing, "Well, it's coming up on a year now, and it's hard." They just sit there silently, as if they don't know how badly I am hurting. In this place, so all alone. They wanted me to say, "Fine," and leave it at that. I am not fine.

My face has a hard time smiling today. My soul knows no joy. The tears take over. I cannot hold her. I can't take her hand to cross the street, or help her to stand. No baby food stains drain down the front of her clothes. No drooling, no teeth to cut, no formula or spaghetti to wash with the laundry. The stains on my face remain a subtle sign to the outside world of just what is missing inside me. But nobody sees. Nobody wants to. Nobody dares to.

The family pictures show four. "Perfect," people think. They do not know one is missing, never to be with us. They do not know of the toys she will not play with, the hugs she will not get, the kisses we will miss out on, the laughter and the giggles unexpressed.

They do not see the gaping hole where my heart used to be. They do not know that I am hurting so terribly, because they have chosen not to hear, not to listen, not to care. It makes the hurt deeper, and the tears sting more, and the loneliness overwhelm me. Those that are closest to me should take my hand, and hold their shoulders out to me for support and care. Instead they walk away.

My baby girl is gone. I may never have another. No one can replace her. My sons are wonderful, and I love them with all my heart. But I miss her with all my heart, too. That is something that the world does not understand or support. I am supposed to be grateful for what I have -- I am -- but that somehow means I am supposed to forget my little girl, which I can't. And I shouldn't. But they think I should.

It's been a year. And nearly everyone has forgotten.

Except me.

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