I dreamed of a baby last night. And it wasn’t Grace. I delivered him at the same hospital where Grace was born and as he was handed to me I felt peace. I lowered my shirt, exposed my left breast, cradled him and then watched in awe as his little mouth took hold and I felt my life and love being passed through my milk to him, nourishing him. Then he slept and I watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.
The last time I dreamed of a baby was shortly after Grace died. I pointed to a baby lying on the mattress and screamed ‘look, she’s breathing, she’s not dead.’ I scooped her up and held her tight. But she wasn’t Grace either. Grace’s hair is the same shade of brown as mine, but this baby had blonde hair. Just before I woke up I saw a reflection in the mirror of myself holding this baby, who was now a toddler. I was smiling, but a haunted, glazed look in my eyes betrayed my sadness. The toddler was grinning – a pure and shameless grin of joy and her bright blue eyes twinkled.
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