This picture was taken April 2, 2006. It is the last picture I have of me pregnant with Cora.
Four years. Four whole years. And yet it seems like yesterday. There are moments of memory that are so very crystal clear. But the parts that I really want to remember are the ones that are fuzzy, the ones that time has blurred.
I don't remember how it felt to have her kick, not really. I don't remember how it felt to hold her little body in my arms. I don't remember how she smelled. I remember the emotions though. I remember reclining in a bathtub, just a few weeks before she was born, because my back hurt so very badly. I was watching my belly move and she kicked and rolled. To this day I have no idea whether she liked or disliked the warm water of baths and showers on my belly, but either way it always made her really active. This particular day I sat there until I was incredibly pruny and the water was rather cold, because I was so in awe of the fact that I had a person inside me, and that person was moving around, kicking my hands when I gently poked at her.
Though this pregnancy story doesn't have a happy ending, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Having her and losing her is so much better than never having her at all. I treasure those small snapshots I have of my life with her. Even if I was so incredibly miserably sick that most of my pregnancy memories include vomit in some way, I was happy. Cora taught me that joy. Her death taught me the appreciation of every joyful moment.
So today, yes, I miss her, but I am remembering her with a smile.