A Wish For Next Year

I wish for the impossible, for the faraway lifetime that ended years ago.

I wish that the earth, soft with winter rain, would feel your feet — wide and solid — walk again through our garden. And that you would gather winter squash as you did before.

I wish for one more brightly-lit dinner around our dinner table, and that you would tell me one more time about the mysteries of the universe from the book you were reading.

I wish for one more embrace. I would cradle your head with its wild, soft curls into the crook of my neck, like I always did. I would tell you, I love you, sweetie pie, like I did so many times before. But this time I would hold you tighter and longer, I would press the words I love you into your heart until they took root. Until they grew deeply into the earth.

I understand that these wishes will never come close enough so I can touch them. But I still wish for them. I will always wish for the impossible.

Next to the impossible wishes, are the quiet, truth-filled words my ancient heart whispers. It says:

‘The faraway lifetime is with you, even though you cannot see it or touch it. When you close your eyes and quiet your mind, it will draw near to your soul. In time, you will learn how to bless the space between the faraway and the here.’

‘Soft winter rain will still fall, and it will bring you comfort to know that the heavens cry just as you cry — tears falling down your faces, wetting the soft earth. All the elements mourn the loss of your child.’

‘You will pick up the book of mysteries that she was reading, and read the words about how the whole universe branches off into parallel universes every time a decision is made. And that energy is neither created nor destroyed. You hope that in a parallel universe she is full of life, bold and joyful, strongly rooted to the living. You hope that she is happy.’

‘You will lean into the gray, sad, slow days. And every now and then, you will feel a gentle touch on your shoulder when her ghost head softly bends down into the crook of your neck. You will turn and there will be no one there. When you close your eyes, you will feel the words, I love you too, pressed against your heart.’

I love you too. I love you too. I love you too.’ May these ghost words lean against you, always. May this faraway echo cradle you for the rest of your life.