Which woman has died?

I want to write something. I have logged on here to write something. Something about the emptiness I am feeling. But, as I sit crosslegged, the laptop resting on my knees, I cannot access words or phrases. Bill and Miles are sleeping soundly in the bedroom, and still I sit here. The television is on in front of me, I think. Yes, it is. I hear it. I see it now. Some meaningless commercials are coming into soft focus. This entry is without spirit, without creativity. I have just switched off the idiot box. This is crucial moment. This is the time when I have no direction, I have no theme, I have only words and exposed pieces.

The nightlight is on in the baby's room, it's peach syrup brightness oozing like honey over the white-washed crib. Never, even in daylight, has mother switched off that comfort incandescence. Somehow she can't, even though she anticipates with terror the moment that the sweet shadow shudders in its final moments, and sleeps. On the day Sophie erupted silent and perfectly still from her mother, that light flickered on. Twilight has been far less fearful, imagining Sophie basking in light, never in the midnight cold of winter's frozen earth. Sophie has been given light, even in her stunned black death. But, I think mother has died. That part of mother is gone. She is perfectly sealed, slivers of light almost entirely shut out. Mother will never see Sophie grow. Sophie will never cry in mother's arms. Mother can now no longer imagine how Sophie would have sounded or felt. Sophie will never see mother's golden hair. So, here is the question, which woman has died?

Whoa. Time warp. I am out of retrospective, pervasive depression mode. Crazy. But, seriously, I did realize that feeling the other day. If I never see Sophie and she never sees me, then it is reasonable to ask which, if not both of us, is really gone. So, I can take this in two directions.

First, I can further explore the possibility that I am, in fact, dead. Hmm, that seems like a downer and a dead end. No pun intended. (Pinches self) Ow. Still here, if we accept the theory that pain resulting from pinching onesself is scientific evidence of one's status as "alive". Let's work within that precept.

So, we must move on the second option. I must prove to myself that "alive" means more than what I have thus far taken it to mean. If I can be so blessed as to live each day, and still wonder whether I am, in fact, gone, then I must be doing something wrong. I can live better than this. I may never be the woman that I would have been if Sophie were by my side, but I want her, my husband and my future children to look at me in awe of my ferocity for life. I want to go to Sophie proud someday with a rich treasure chest of experiences to share. I want her to shed a tear of happiness that she has made her mother and father more. More wonderful and appreciative people. More caring partners. More passionate and loving parents...I promise to try.

(I hate this ending. It is too late. I am delerious. Forgive me.)