Dreaming of her.

Dreamt of Sophie twice this week.
She was no black haired, galloping toddler.
Each time, she was a newborn.
Small, pink, warm, and still.
She was a quiet form, gone already.
But perfectly preserved in her tender pliability.
I was not able to watch her grow in dream land.
Yet, I held her for hours, and even now I can feel her smallness.
I did not hear the cries or laughs of what might have been.
I was not able to dress her or look into her eyes.
This was no fantasy of what ifs.
It was real - the memories that are all I have.
Real, in my dreams of her.

Her skin was soft. I touched it again with my index knuckle, the way I stroke sweet Eleanor's. And, Eleanor was there with me, playing in my arms and touching her sister's face. Sophie was small enough to wrap in a pink blanket, and to carry very gently. I held her against my body, and she warmed me deeply in my heart. She was not breathing, and everyone knew. But, in my dream, that was not strange. Not morbid, or sad. Not lonely, or finite. No reason to look at me with pity, or for me to cry out. She completed me with her warm tiny motionless body. I took her from place to place, and Bill so carefully tended to her. She was preserved in rose and strawberry, and she smelled of baby as I pressed my cheek against hers. Our time together was short, but real. It must have been heaven for us both.