breathe out. “You need to listen to me.” Her lips purse together with a hint of the attitude I know is looming. “You do not ever need to worry about me. I have never liked being alone because I love being with you. And yes, you are a million percent correct: I will always, always need you, and I hope you will always need me too. Plus, I wasn’t alone today—I had Uncle AJ with me all day at work.”
“Oh, Daddy. You’re so good at avoiding the truth,” Olive responds. She is not five. I’m convinced of this. Rather than fight with the warrior of all fights, I pull her back in and her arms loop around my neck as she rests her head on my shoulder. “Whether you like to believe it or not, I was sent to you for a reason.” While there are many times when I feel like the use of her words surpasses her age, I’m beginning to question where she is getting these insightful statements from—or rather, who read them to her.
“Olive,” I sigh. “Who read your baby book to you?”
“Auntie Alexa,” she giggles. It has been a couple of years since I have opened Olive’s baby book. I used to read it to her every night, the parts that Ellie insisted on filling out before Olive was even born. A writer never has a shortage of words, and as an English teacher, it should never have surprised me how many letters she wrote to Olive in preparation for her life. There were nights when I would sit in Olive’s room after she had fallen asleep and read Ellie’s words under the glow of the moonlight, imagining the sound of her voice as if she were speaking the words into my ear. Some of the pages had stains from tears…tears of happiness she felt when dreaming of a life she was creating. I used to trace my finger over the soft, puckered spots on the paper, wishing I could wipe away another one of Ellie’s happy tears from her face rather than from a page in a baby book.
It got to the point where I couldn’t read it anymore. The pain it was causing me to imagine the words that had gone unspoken after Ellie’s death began to haunt me. I wanted to write the words for her—explain in great detail what Olive looked like, how the sound of her cry was nothing less than a soothing lullaby from heaven. I wanted to describe the incredible color of Olive’s eyes—how they are blue, but with greens, yellows and purples mixed in like a splash of watercolor. I should have been able to write about the time Olive looked up into the sky and said “Ma”. I know it was nothing more than baby babble, but to me it was a sign connecting our family.
It never fails, the second I place a pen down to the glossy paper in Olive’s baby book, the words seem to float above my head like a breeze, drifting just out of reach and causing me to forget how to put a sentence together. I’m not a writer. I’m a reader of a writer’s words and the only writer I have ever wanted to read words from can no longer breathe the air needed to form a syllable.
Olive slips herself out of my arms as we approach our driveway. “I’ll get the mail!” she shouts, running ahead. She whips open the door to the mailbox and pulls herself up on her tiptoes to reach whatever is inside. As she retrieves the mail, she looks at it quickly, flipping through it like she does every day. I’m not sure I understand the excitement of looking through mail, considering the amount of bills I receive, but for some reason she enjoys thumbing through it all. I can assume that might change some day when she has financial responsibilities. “Daddy, there’s a letter from that lady.”
Ellie . Her heart. I jog over to Olive and take the letter from her hand. Turning it over, I’m hopeful for a return address, but once again, disappointment sets in when I see that this continues to be a one-way message.
Olive stands in front of me, looking up, waiting to hear what the note says. Before I open it, I look back down at her pleading eyes. Does she feel what I feel? Does she yearn
“Oh, Daddy. You’re so good at avoiding the truth,” Olive responds. She is not five. I’m convinced of this. Rather than fight with the warrior of all fights, I pull her back in and her arms loop around my neck as she rests her head on my shoulder. “Whether you like to believe it or not, I was sent to you for a reason.” While there are many times when I feel like the use of her words surpasses her age, I’m beginning to question where she is getting these insightful statements from—or rather, who read them to her.
“Olive,” I sigh. “Who read your baby book to you?”
“Auntie Alexa,” she giggles. It has been a couple of years since I have opened Olive’s baby book. I used to read it to her every night, the parts that Ellie insisted on filling out before Olive was even born. A writer never has a shortage of words, and as an English teacher, it should never have surprised me how many letters she wrote to Olive in preparation for her life. There were nights when I would sit in Olive’s room after she had fallen asleep and read Ellie’s words under the glow of the moonlight, imagining the sound of her voice as if she were speaking the words into my ear. Some of the pages had stains from tears…tears of happiness she felt when dreaming of a life she was creating. I used to trace my finger over the soft, puckered spots on the paper, wishing I could wipe away another one of Ellie’s happy tears from her face rather than from a page in a baby book.
It got to the point where I couldn’t read it anymore. The pain it was causing me to imagine the words that had gone unspoken after Ellie’s death began to haunt me. I wanted to write the words for her—explain in great detail what Olive looked like, how the sound of her cry was nothing less than a soothing lullaby from heaven. I wanted to describe the incredible color of Olive’s eyes—how they are blue, but with greens, yellows and purples mixed in like a splash of watercolor. I should have been able to write about the time Olive looked up into the sky and said “Ma”. I know it was nothing more than baby babble, but to me it was a sign connecting our family.
It never fails, the second I place a pen down to the glossy paper in Olive’s baby book, the words seem to float above my head like a breeze, drifting just out of reach and causing me to forget how to put a sentence together. I’m not a writer. I’m a reader of a writer’s words and the only writer I have ever wanted to read words from can no longer breathe the air needed to form a syllable.
Olive slips herself out of my arms as we approach our driveway. “I’ll get the mail!” she shouts, running ahead. She whips open the door to the mailbox and pulls herself up on her tiptoes to reach whatever is inside. As she retrieves the mail, she looks at it quickly, flipping through it like she does every day. I’m not sure I understand the excitement of looking through mail, considering the amount of bills I receive, but for some reason she enjoys thumbing through it all. I can assume that might change some day when she has financial responsibilities. “Daddy, there’s a letter from that lady.”
Ellie . Her heart. I jog over to Olive and take the letter from her hand. Turning it over, I’m hopeful for a return address, but once again, disappointment sets in when I see that this continues to be a one-way message.
Olive stands in front of me, looking up, waiting to hear what the note says. Before I open it, I look back down at her pleading eyes. Does she feel what I feel? Does she yearn
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