"Choose a poem," The instructor of my tiny writing class says as she walks up and down the aisles, her shoes click clacking as she walks.
I picked the poem by e.e. Cummings (I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart))
She asks us to write an analysis describing what the poem means to us
I want to ask her if she ever lost a baby
I want to look into her eyes as if examining her for some broken piece that screams she knows my pain.
Instead I look at my page, at the others in the group. None of them know about Mia and sometimes I wish they did and other times I am quite content to keep her memory to myself.
I try to think of something to say that wouldn't betray the memory of my dead daughter.
I end up turning it in with only having analyzed metaphors and figurative language. On the front I write on a sticky note:
To my darling girl, I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart). Love, Mama
I set it on the teacher's desk and leave quickly, head down as if trying not to be noticed. I wrap my coat around myself to ward off the chill
I carry your heart with me, baby, I carry it in my heart