Joshua

It seems you are not to be born, child that at one point in my life
I was so sure I would bear. Sweet child who would sit on my lap
and learn to read. The books still sit inside a cabinet in the hall:
tales of Pooh and of toad, mole, and badger. I can't seem to give
them away.

That infernal clock is winding down, so I don't imagine I will ever
know you. I wonder what it would have been like to feel
you growing inside of me, to be that close to someone, to actually
be a part of a new human being?

I have always had doubts about the kind of mother I'd be.
Since there is no one in my life, I have no choice but to accept
- regardless of my doubts about my parenting skills - the likelihood
of your non-existence. I haven't cried over you in quite some
time, so I guess I've come to terms with your not being.
And yet, you're on my mind.