This Is Just A Test

My hand was weak. I dragged the pen across the page with more effort than it should have taken to lift such a light object. I worked at it, though, forcing myself to concentrate because I knew it had to be done. I wrote out the words my family would need to hear.

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On the first sheet of paper, my handwriting had started out smooth and easy, flowing from smooth and easy thoughts, illuminating the words I wouldn't be able to speak. I wrote about how much I loved my daughters. I wrote to Mia about things she would face in life that would be difficult -- painful -- but that would eventually help her grow into a strong and capable young woman. I explained how deeply I loved her, how desperately I wanted -- right then -- to see each expression on her face and feel each bone in her body to prove to myself that she'd been real and perfect. Not just a figment of my exhausted brain's imagination. I wrote about how blessed I felt for being allowed the privilege of learning to be her mother. My throat constricted when I imagined her without me, but I would not cry. It would tire me out too much to cry.

The words took up so much space on the page that they became cramped and contorted towards the bottom. The effort drained me. Shuffling around for a second sheet of paper, I thought to take a break for awhile...to regain my strength. But I knew that if I paused, my chance would be over, my time would be up, and the ones I loved most wouldn't have any piece of me left to hold on to.

I wrote on, this time to Lauren. I tried to explain how lovely she was and how fully I'd adored her. Her being the younger one, I was terrified that she'd grow up not remembering how much love I showered upon her precious head, every moment of the day. I needed her to understand how much I'd cherished her, and how I'd planned years and years for us to get to know each other. I wrote to her about the way she buried her head in my neck when she was nervous or sick, and how much I loved the way her hair felt against my cheek. I wrote about the lullabies she requested night after night, spelling out the words so she'd maybe maybe be able to hear my voice in them. Even if the words were more and more scribbled, less and less legible, I wanted her to have them.

And my husband. I searched for a third sheet of paper. Not only were my hands worn out now, but my arms as well. The desire to just...sleep...washed over me in dusky, quiet waves. My head searched for a place to lay, but it was as if my hands were in control now. With heavy eyes and slow breath, I moved the pen across the paper, barely knowing what was being written. I hoped it was something wonderful. Something magical that Justin could look at and know what I was writing. Although my love was pouring over the blank sheet, I could no longer move it into a recognizable form. But I kept going. It was important that he see my love...my gratitude...my passion. I knew he would understand. I knew he would cherish it.

The muscles that had been controlling my body stopped working. The pen was perched in my loosening grip, its ink still ready, still available. But my words were over. With the weight of my children fresh in my mind -- their silky hair...their round cheeks...their warm arms -- and the memory of my husband's breath on my neck, I closed my eyes. I rested. I was gone.

And then...

Music tumbled from my alarm clock.

I woke up with tears in my eyes.