The elephant hooded towel

That was for my baby

My best friend brought me some things that she had held onto when we met a couple of weeks ago for lunch.

They were things from my mother, from her apartment, that Holly had been storing for me.

I unpacked them, mostly sentimental, personal items that made me think of her—

A little dish with hearts on it with mini shells, some 2020 planners that I wanted to keep to see her handwriting, a few purses.

As I neared the end of the bag, I pulled out something that made me stare, that gave me pause—

It was a baby towel with a hood, decorated with elephants.

I love elephants and when I was pregnant I wanted to decorate my baby’s room and stuff with elephants.

My mother knew this so she had bought this for me.

I stared at that blanket. And I thought about all that has passed since then.

When Danielle of January 2020 put that baby towel in a bag to store.

I kept that blanket, even though I had miscarried by the time she died, because I thought I may use it one day.

My grief then was still fresh. My body had only stopped the heavy bleeding a few days before I learned my mother had passed away.

I have since donated all of the other items she had given me—like the Osh Kosh jean overalls she had gotten for my baby.

(My mother was convinced that all toddlers needed a pair of Osh Kosh overalls.)

I donated those when I went back to North Carolina, last December, to get my stuff and pick up the remnants of a life there. I put aside a pillow for pregnancy that my friend Sri had given me, a cute onesie that reminded me of my former partner, commenting on a baby’s ‘guns’ and how they had gotten them from their daddy.

These items I left in a heap in the garage, as I threw what I would take into my Camry, anxious to drive away and leave that life behind.

Finding this baby towel surprised me. I thought I had gotten rid of all of it.

And yet, it made me remember:

It made me remember my beloved mother, whose love language was gift giving, who I know would have loved my child with all of that amazing tenderness and maternal joy and warmth that she encased me in for as long as she was alive.

She already did love him. In the last month of her life, in a text message to me, she told me to tell ‘Liam’ he could call her Ga-Ga or Ya-Ya, his preference.

I lost them both within three weeks of each other.

I like to think of them together now. Hugs and smiles. Free of pain. Happy. Peaceful. The thought comforts me.

I am thankful not to have a child with a narcissist, someone incapable of empathy and accountability.

But that doesn’t cancel out the pain. It doesn’t erase the heartache, the deep grief and hurt that I lost my child. Two, actually, within six months of each other.

But there is comfort that they my children never will know pain or hurt or loneliness or cold, but still, they existed:

“Don’t let them say I wasn’t born

That something stopped my heart

I felt each tender squeeze you gave

I’ve loved you from the start.

Although my body you can’t hold, doesn’t mean I’m gone.

this world was not worthy, not of me.

God chose that I move on.

I know the pain that drowns your soul,

What you are forced to face.

You have my word. I’ll fill your arms.

Someday we will embrace.

You’ll hear that it was ‘meant to be’.

God doesn’t make mistakes.

But that won’t soften your worst blow.

Or make your heart not ache.

I’m watching over all you do,

Believe me when I say to you,

That I am always there.

There will come a time, I promise you

When you will hold my hand.

Stroke my face and kiss my lips.

And then you’ll understand.

Although I never breathed your air

Or gazed into your eyes,

That doesn’t mean I never was.”

—author unknown