Every time I watch baseball

A voice I no longer recognize

whispers

“Ethan, do you remember?

when you were gonna be

the first girl in the major leagues

Seattle Mariners. Rally cap.”

To be honest, Emily, I don’t.

Dad told me that

like it was someone else’s bedtime story.

But I know you had that drive,

didn’t let anyone tell you

to wear shorts above your knees

didn’t care if boys thought your hair fell on
your shoulders just right.

but with

sleepovers
meant

the space
between

your shoulder
and hers

was a 6-inch
fatal territory.

The year you turned eleven

was the first time you

said out loud

that you didn’t want

to live anymore.

In therapy you said

you wouldn’t make it to 21.

On my 21st birthday

I thought about you,

you were right.

At nineteen you started to fade.

I tried to cross you out like a line

in my memoir I wished I could erase completely.

And maybe I’m misunderstanding the definition of death

but even though parts of you still exist you are not here-

most of my friends have never heard your name until now.

I’ve been trying to write this letter for six months.

I still can’t decide if it should be an apology or not.

But now you will never hear “Emily Smith”

announced at a college graduation,

I made the appointment,

to let a doctor remove your breasts

so that I could stand up straighter.

Now even if I somehow had those children

I wouldn’t be able to nourish them.

My body will be obsolete,

scarred cosmetic,

but never C-section.

I was four days late

they will never be grandparents

I was one week late

they will never hold their lover’s
sleeping figure.

I was eleven days late

they will never breathe in a sunset
and sunrise in the same night.

I was two weeks late

they will never learn to jump rope.

I was three weeks late

they will never shout "Watch Mommy!
Watch me on the slide!"

I was two months late.

A piece of us will never
wrap their arms

around our leg
for comfort,

or just to keep them
from falling down.

And I am, sorry,

that this process is so slow

and all you can
do is wonder

if you ever had a place.

You did.

You still do.

Don’t forget that.

Yours,
Ethan

p.s. I never hated you.