People often ask me if I have grandchildren. I'm never quite sure how to answer that question. You see, I do have grandchildren, six beautiful granddaughters, but only five are living. Do I tell them about Jordan, my very first grandchild, who died nine short days after her birth, or do I keep her hidden in my heart?
In a perfect world, Jordan would have turned twenty-three yesterday. Perhaps she would have celebrated her birthday at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, eating greasy fried food from the carnival midway and watching Maroon 5 in concert after the rodeo events were over. Perhaps she would be planning her wedding to a man who loves her more than the sun in the sky, or cuddling her newborn child, or enjoying a myriad of other life events.
Instead, she lives in my imagination as a toddler, squatted down to examine ants crawling up the sidewalk. None of us ever held her in our arms until she fell asleep, never nuzzled our noses against her warm baby neck and smelled that sweet baby smell. We held her for the first time after she was gone.
Twenty-three years, and still my heart aches. Should I tell people I have 6 beautiful granddaughters, or should I keep her hidden?
I love you still, sweet baby.