I remember her
Her little body looked like it was made of glass. I was afraid to touch her. They urged me to go, to pick her up, to rock her body and hold it close to mine, but I shook my head.
I didn't want to touch her
Her tiny hands were balled up into fists, her face pale.
She was tiny. God, was she tiny. And lifeless and harmless and helpless.
I wish I'd touched her
I wish, when I'd had the chance, I'd kissed her head. I wish I'd touched her fists.
I wish I hadn't been afraid. Everyone else in the room held her, touched her, cried over her, but I didn't.
Tomorrow I'm getting my memorial tattoo, a permanent reminder of my girl. Also of the person I've become since she died.
I watched a video today about stillbirth and cried.
I wish I'd held her.
