My neighbors have a beautiful display-
red and yellow flowers, bowls of mango and gourds, sugar skulls.
Photos of those who have passed lovingly placed in the center.
I pass by respectfully and dream of my ofrenda.
I imagine shopping for supplies,
lovingly attending to it throughout this thinning of the veils.
But I have no photo for the spirit of a daughter
who never took a single breath, never emerged from
my womb with a cry of "I am, mama! I am!"
Never.
I've heard people say a woman my age without children is selfish.
They do not know what they are saying.
They do not know how hard I tried.
And yet, perhaps I am.
Selfish, I mean.
To weep for a pain I will never feel,
to indulge in hours of daydreaming over the most mundane of things.
Teenaged fights. Picking fallen leaves. Searching for four-leaf clovers.
If I had my daughter--
curly black hair like her father,
big eyes like mine.
A little crossed,
but we'll get surgery for that when the time comes.
Dimples in her cheeks and one in her chin.
Bright, interested in science and the natural world,
A lover of Napoli's football club,
Fiercely brave and loyal.
At times, cold to those who've wronged her,
unable to hide her true feelings
and disdainful of those who do.
Eternally giving to whom she loves, though,
And like her parents,
Sometimes she gives too much.
On this year's Day of the Dead
I cannot create an altar to honor those I've lost
because I find myself still mourning
the one who will never be born.
