The Missing Piece

Dear Noah,

I miss you, though I’ve never met you. Many times I’ve stared at the dark, fuzzy ultrasound pictures and wondered if things would have changed if you had lived. I’ve always wanted an older brother. To challenge me. To show me the ins and outs of the world. To explain to me the way of life.

I looked up the meaning of your name yesterday. It means to comfort. Now I fully understand the cruel irony of the miscarriage. Because I know about the missing piece of the puzzle. Somebody stable. When Mom and Dad forgot their parental responsibility after a mishap at work, they saw my external stability and assumed too much. “Our rock,” they said, “The one that keeps us all going.” They didn’t know that rocks can become sharp, carved by anger and grief. How could they know when they always stayed away?

Mom cried, Dad sulked. I didn’t think it could last for two years, but it did. I started thinking about how we could have done it together. I might have kept my childhood a little longer. Eleven felt too young. I grew up too fast, while you never had to. You didn’t have to help raise our brother and sister. I did alright with Tommy because of his young age. He immediately accepted me as an authority figure, letting me nurture and care for him. Rachel, though, pushed me away and kept to herself, like a blossom afraid to bloom. At age seven, she understood more of what had occurred with our parents. She remains angry with me to this day. Angry at me for trying to be something we both knew I wasn’t. I hope she heals, forgets those dark years, and forgives me. I let her down when she needed me. I must have. Maybe you would have done a better job with her… I don’t know. I’ll never know. But at least you could have shared the guilt.

Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t - I can’t - blame you. How could I? It wasn’t your fault. After, all you weren’t even here to mess things up. I suppose that makes this letter seem pretty unfair to you. How could I blame anyone but myself? I could try to blame God, but in the past that has only led me to confusion and doubt. So instead of avoiding the inevitable, I should probably just accept the blame and move on. I always do.

Wouldn’t you like to talk about it? About everything? Maybe visit me in a dream or something? I know miracles don’t actually happen these days, and I’ve never believed in ghosts. But if you ever see this letter, couldn’t you ask the old man upstairs to make an exception? For my sake?

Sometimes I wish you had lived instead of me. It gets lonely down here, but I guess you wouldn’t understand. Don’t feel bad, I’ll make it. We all get jealous of people like you every now and again. People who don’t have to go through what we do. People who have it easy. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Well, sorry to disturb your blissful days of eternity. I hope to see you soon- in terms of your soon, not mine. I still miss you.

Love,

Your Little Sister