Tell Her

I will liza dora

I put her in her bed early tonight, because I’m tired and potty training is hard. I got in the bath and scrolling through Facebook, I read a post about a little boy whose eyes began to cross and his mothers lost him after a year.

Again I thanked God that cancer happened to me and not her. Because you guys don’t know it, because she’s still so young, but I do. She’s the best. The very best. The very best of everything I have or have ever had, is behind her eyes. It’s twirled into her hair. It’s on her skin and in her smile. And I can already see it.

I want to hold her hand when I’m 80 and she’s 50. I want to see what she’s going to do with this life and I’m going to figure out how to do that. I will.

But if there’s ever a time that she feels without me, I need you to tell her. Tell her I loved her so much that I brought her sleepy, and already content in her own bed, back into mine. Tell her that I needed to listen to her heartbeat up close and whisper bedtime stories in silly voices into her ear. Tell her I needed to wake up to tiny spider fingers across my back and a smiling face framed by a halo of curls.

Tell her there were nights I was so scared to lose her that it took me until morning to be brave again.

Tell her how much I love her and then tell her all over again.  And tell her I’m going to figure out how to be there. For all the big moments and most of the small ones, too. Tell her to always look for me, because where there’s a will, there’s a way. And I?

I will.

 

 

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*This post also appeared on The Mighty.

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