'There was always rain. There is always rain in my life, yet it only brings happiness'
It's dark outside, and thunder is crashing, screaming, overpowering all other sounds, lightning illuminating the night sky, punctuated by shimmering torrential rain.
I remember another night like this, Amy, my darling. We had lit a fire, and the flames were dancing over the grate, shadows spinning on the walls. It was the night we found out that you were to enter this world, my very own, my darling Amy, my baby. Tears, but those of joy, glistening pearls sliding down both of our cheeks, the overwhelming warmth which came with our happiness in one another, and in you, in baby Amy, who was to be with us in less than a year.
Except we didn't know you were to be Amy then, we just knew that you'd be a gorgeous bundle of light, the child to complete our house of dreams.
And the next day, I ran out of the house early morning, holding an anorak over my head, like some kind of deranged, blissful superwoman. I ran into the car, and we drove to the hospital to see you, to see what you looked like, although I already knew of course. The dark photo of my beautiful baby curled up within me, nuzzled in my stomach, asleep among my organs brought a kind of euphoria I had never experienced before.
And the celebrations, Amy, the celebrations! The millions of phone calls we made, the themed baby showers, the planning of the room and finally, most dear to me, was my school party.
I loved those children, my children, my own students but so much more to me than students with a fierce, burning passion. At the end of the day, when we'd gather our belongings and the bell would trill, this stampede of small, naive people would run out, into the arms of loving mothers, angry au pairs or vacuous, bored teaching assistants running the after school clubs.
Every day, every day, every day I would watch them go with tears in my eyes. The eight hours I had been with them, taught them, was soul food. But now they were leaving and I was to go home to a flat, where I had Robert, the perfect husband, but you weren't there Amy, and that's what killed me every second of my life, that there wasn't an Amy to kiss goodnight or to wake up to feed in the small hours.
Of course you know what Amy means, what your name means. Beloved, and you were so beloved to us. The idea of you being within me, of sleeping when I was sleeping and that you were soon to enter the world I had so carefully beautified for you... It thrilled me, my every waking moment. Has an unborn child ever brought such joy?
The rain is showing no signs of stopping and Robert isn't home yet. The curious emptiness inside me eats away and I run my hand over the pills lying on the table, my book, bringing them to rest on my belly. I can't focus. The insistent pounding of rain against the window panes seems to echo the thudding of my own heart, beating heavily, my hands becoming clammy. My eyes come to rest, as always, on the framed black photo of you, because no matter how many years go by, looking at it, I can still imagine that it's a couple of months until you come to see me Amy; that it's not too long until you can be dressed in the soft, creamy, pale orange dress the students raised a collection to give me, tinted with soft rainbow hues at the edges, it was garish and vulgar and an object of adoration by all the little girls in my class. I loved it, Amy. I loved it because it was yours.
What a baby shower we had, with prams and toys and clothes and me in my flowing ethnic maternity dresses, because I was determined to wear my pregnancy well. My memories are churning, whirling in my mind.
And then the day came! My mind slowly makes it way back to that day, never a painful memory, only bittersweet. There was always rain. There is always rain in my life, my darling, yet it only brings happiness because it was raining the day you entered the world. I'm sure it was painful, I'm sure I cried and begged for more painkillers. The day Robert drove me to the hospital, to say hello to Amy.
But somehow the silken blur which was that day didn't seem painful, or hurtful. It was all velvety joy and blissful oblivion, oblivion to the look on Robert's face, the shaking hands of the nurses when they gave me the anaesthetic and then-
When the darkness fell away.
Do you know what they told me, Amy? They said, Amy isn't here, dear. Amy's left to be in a better place. How I laughed. As if my baby would leave her mother, when we had a lifetime of you before us. These people must have been crazy! It dawned me after a while, that they were serious.
I think I cried. Probably.
It's the kind of thing you cry at isn't it?
When they tell you your Amy has died.
They told me I'd be angry, hurt, upset and I wasn't, oh, I wasn't!
I knew you'd never hurt me deliberately, darling, you wouldn't hurt your mother, you were a good baby, the best baby. I couldn't be angry at you, you beautiful, rosy, creature.
And now the emptiness seems to have reached its climax, because finally I don't miss you any more as I reach for the bottle of pills, consecrating my end, and the beginning of a new story for us. I'm coming, Amy, I'm coming to see you soon.
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