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 ^{(it's beta!)}

to me, a gift of clairvoyance would be a nuisance. nothing would be a surprise; nothing would be special. everything would happen exactly as your mind knew it would. the only convenience it would provide is a head free of worry. even so, it'd be a gray life without surprises and worry. or so we think.

in retrospect, i'd give anything to be clairvoyant for a split second the day you thought you were fine. i'd tell you,

"mommy, you're really sick."

i'd take your hand and lead you out of the combination stepdad-aunt birthday party. i'd tell you in a sweet but firm voice,

"mommy, you're not drunk. you're sick."

i'd find a way to get you to the hospital even if it meant walking. hell, i'd carry you on my back and up a hill knowing the pain you could feel for years to come if we didn't get to the hospital soon.

i'd tell you to put on a hospital gown without question. i'd push you on a gurney despite the capacity of my motor skills. i'd tell the doctors, (who, at this point, probably thought i was the one in need of care), that it wasn't just the flu. i'd tell them firmly and unkindly,

"doctor, if you won't fix my mommy, i will."

and mama, i would've. your smile means too much to me to be shattered.

but i'm not clairvoyant. please forgive me.

i know now i couldn't have ever told you that the tickle of cold pepsi on your lips would be the last good feeling you'd have for weeks. i know now, also, that i shouldn't be wishing to undo the past. what's done is done.

the day i first saw you smile, laying there, thinning in your hospital bed, i knew your smile wasn't shattered. just...pieces were missing. and i'd be more than happy to find those pieces and put them back where they belong. i know you found a piece all on your own when you used your walker for the first time, and especially when you came home.

i have nightmares about you sometimes. nightmares that it will come back for more than it was given. you used to console me when i woke up from my nightmares. i can't tell you my nightmares anymore. i don't want to scare you. so who's going to tell me my nightmares aren't real?

but i have dreams, too. dreams that you're dancing; twirling and twirling with the husband who's held your hand through all of this. we can't even see what part of your body is missing because we're too busy looking at heaven in your eyes.

imagine if those eyes were closed forever. where would heaven have gone?

love, chelsea.