This letter is the composite articulation of reflections on conversations with close family of a little girl who died in the womb.
Part of me is thinking this may as well be "Dear Santa"; I don't even know if you exist. I think you probably do because I don't know how else the sun, the moon and the stars, the earth and the sky would exist. But anyway, right now, I want you to exist. I need you to listen to me. I hope you are there, and listening.
I want you to know that I am hurting, heartbroken for my little girl. If you are God you would know that, but I need to tell you. My pain is so, so deep. She didn't deserve this. She was just there in the womb for over eight months making us happy with anticipation - healthy and kicking. And then she died. Her heart just stopped beating. Suddenly she was dead. Oh, God! How cruel. How unbelievably cruel. For her, for me, for all of us who knew her and loved her. Why? Not the medical, clinical why - although that as well - but how could you let this happen?
We all had all these hopes and dreams. Her room and bassinet all ready. Friends and family gave pretty clothes for her and we all imagined how sweet she would look in this and that, surrounded by cute soft toys.
We did get to dress her up - but only after she was taken from the womb, stillborn. She looked so perfect, so innocent, so lovely. Oh, God, dear God. Why? Why? Why? How could this have happened like this? So close. So near to the end. Our little girl never got the chance, never got the chance to be a baby, to be on the breast, to be loved.
But we did love her. No. We love her still. We love her memory. Oh, God, are you listening? Is she with you now? Is there life after death? Please, let it be so. Please let her be our little angel there with you.
Are you there? Are you listening? Dear God. Please be there. Please be here. With us. Now. We need you. We need you so.