The truth is, April, I never wanted you to come. I’ve been dreading you for the past seven months, overlooking you every time I flip through a calendar because on your 22nd day, we were supposed to experience a new kind of extraordinary joy. Instead, we won’t be.
I think back to early last September when we giggled and talked and dreamt as we lay awake in bed of how by the time we reached you, April, I’d have to go shopping for a new dress for the wedding we’d be attending in two weeks time and how you would be the perfect month. I beamed as I thought of celebrating my birthday with a tiny miracle kicking and turning and squirming inside of me and then in a few short weeks, celebrating a new birthday.
But it isn’t so, April.
And here we are. You used to be my favorite month, April. But as much as I want to like you now, I can’t.