When I let you go

When I let you go tomorrow, it is knowing they may never bring you back. I keep trying to remind myself that I represent “the system” and they are your home.  I keep reminding my preschooler that this is best for you, hoping my own emotions will catch up.  I keep trying to forget that I won’t be able come to you if you cry for me, and I keep asking God to insulate your heart from a rejection you’re too little to understand. 

When I let you go tomorrow, it is knowing that a year from now you won’t remember me. If we pass on the street you’ll only see yet another white woman. You won’t remember the nights I stumbled from my bed at your little whimpers to change, feed, and cuddle you close. You won’t remember wrapping your fist in my hair or nuzzling into my neck. You won’t remember giving me your first smile, you whose tiny eyebrows wrinkled in permanent furrows those first few days you were in my arms. 

You won’t remember the toddler who is going to search the house for you asking, “Baby??” in the coming weeks. You won’t remember the preschooler who asked daily to hold you, took great pride in holding your bottle, and will ask through broken-hearted tears why had you to leave us.  You won’t remember peaking—bright-eyed—over the strong shoulders of a gentle father who held you against his warmth when the tummy aches hit.  You won’t remember the furry, four-pawed pony-dog who guarded you in silent watchfulness while you slept. 

When I let you go tomorrow, it is knowing I wouldn’t hesitate to do it all again. You won’t remember—but I will. You will rest in my heart and live in my prayers. 

I love you,

“Amma”

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