True, you can’t press a flower as a keepsake between two blog pages.
You can’t accidentally splatter coffee on them, or watch saltwater drops spread across words if you cry.
You can’t stumble upon emails at the bottom of a box like a folded note covered in heart shaped ink.
What I write here has little proof. No tangible evidence that I existed, I was relatable. I was loved, or hated.
I don’t need it.
Without proof, without hundreds of likes on social media, without a picture…
We are not lost.
Two weeks ago, I was shaking uncontrollably in the arms of a man I trust with my life. My white knuckles told his shoulder blades all about the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt, and his breath told me to be still for just a little longer. His collar bone absorbed my screams, his t-shirt my tears.
What must have been running through such a mind, holding a woman birthing his child, all control lost.
No matter how many thousands of words are spoken by the photographs we have, I am thankful this moment wasn’t captured.
It is my favorite. I never have to forget how it felt, because there is no film strip to erase and rewrite the image burnt in my head.
I was loved. And I was alive. And I am here.
[Charley B was born September 5th, 2016 at a healthy 8lbs 4oz and 20 inches.]