Her nursery is unfinished. It’s been this way for quite a while. I can’t bring myself to change it because it is supposed to be so different now. And if I cannot have what it was supposed to be, I don’t want it to be anything else.
Her nursery is bare. The hardwood floor is unadorned by the nursery rug I wanted, and the walls are only painted one color. The wall shelves were never bought, the books we wanted to read her are still only on our wish list. Her clothes are hanging and folded, most unwashed and tags still on. The receipts are in a box, kept in case we needed to return anything, and I think now I should throw them away. I chose a rocking chair. The baby registry is still open.
My child’s crib is empty. It’s there, in one corner. There are no sheets or pads. The mattress is still in plastic wrap. The dolls I made for her are there, collecting dust and cat hair. Her empty baby book lies there too: Here was a baby who should have lived.
My child’s grave seems lonely, and when I visit I wonder how many people try to pry their dead loved ones from their resting, to hold them just one more time. I sit at her grave the same way I sit in her nursery. I think and I remember. I grieve and I wish.
Her nursery is my silent hell. It echoes with the crying of an infant only I can hear. It screams at me to fill it with love and light and laughter, telling me of how I have failed. Someday, I think, things will be different, even though now I am so broken that I do not wish to be put back together. Someday, I might have a living child. But for right now, her nursery is unfinished.