I was blessed with a daughter
on a day in December when
it looked gray and had rained.
The nurse wanted to take my baby
from my arms and put her in a crib.
I cried waking my husband on
the couch as I said how
“I want to go home.”
He said we would another day, so
I write.
My husband and I hurried in
a car from the doctor to the
hospital after she said, “An
infant should not stop
breathing for sixteen seconds
before she exhales again.”
We hurried on a gray day
with clouds that imitated
those that float in before
a hurricane. We got our
daughter there in time, so
I write.
Doctors found the liquid in
her lungs. They diagnosed her
with pneumonia and bronchitis.
Tubes went in her nostrils and
around her arms. I prayed to God
would not take my baby away.
He left her on Earth with us
for a few more years, so
I write.
My daughter and I got onto an
ambulance on a day in May when
the skies reminded me of cigar ash
left in a tray for hours. The rain
poured between the sirens and the
encouragement to pump her chest.
I kept my face hard because I knew
she’d live. She was the strongest
five year old I’d seen pull herself up
on a tree toppled in a tornado, and
treat it like a jungle gym. Three
ambulances flashed their lights as
more teams came inside and I
watched my daughter die, so
I write.
Days after my daughter took
her flight, and spread her wings
gold like the grass that grows long
in our field, children blew bubbles
from containers of yellow, red and blue.
A girl I knew took any bubbles she
could find in the house ready to blow
them in the house when I said she’d get
bubble juice on the ground. She blew
them just outside the screen door.
She’d say, “Mommy, did you see that one?”
In front of me the bubbles flew, so
I write.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 
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