Easter. Or, more properly, Good Friday.

[corrvin]

So, this year, it's finally hit me that this little girl who shares my house, my heart, and my life-- she's mine. Not mine alone, but mine.

I've never really dreamed of having a child. I've never really wanted kids. When I thought about it, I thought, well, having just one wouldn't be such trouble-- and one kid is far easier to cope with than two.

Just one, please. No twins, no "just one more," no whole litters of children that I had to scream at, "Kids!" as if I didn't remember their names. I could handle one, if my partners were sympathetic and helpful and everything was just right.

And I met this guy, back in 2001, and really liked him, and it turned out he had... two kids. I was afraid, really, that at some point we were going to get them both and I was just going to snap, because I could barely imagine having one kid, and two was just completely beyond my control.

And on Easter of 2003, we got a phone call, with the most horrible news a parent should ever have to face. I shouldn't say "this news" or "this thing." She was a real person, this little girl, Charlie was. Charlie died, and that's what happened. She wasn't sick, or playing in the street, or saving someone else. She died in a stupid accident because grownups weren't paying as much attention as they could have. If Charlie hadn't died, then people wouldn't have got upset and we wouldn't have got the Ravenlet. Things would have just gone on as they were.

And there was an awful, horrible secret, passed from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth, away from the children, that Charlie didn't HAVE to die. It could have NOT happened. It could have been prevented. Each of us sat quietly and in our heads counted up the things we could've done but didn't, should've done but wouldn't understand. It's silly, but the thing I regret most is being so vehement that I only wanted one. What would have happened if I'd been more supportive, helped fight for the kids instead of being ambivalent and assuming their mom was taking care of them?

Because Charlie died, her sister lives with us now, and she eats watermelon and vegetables (sometimes willingly) and has kitties and coloring books and she's learning to carry in subtraction, and as time goes on she'll do more and more things that Charlie will never, ever do. She'll grow up and fall in love and maybe get married, and have her first job and her first time to come back to us for help, and the first time she takes care of it herself like a real grownup-- and will Charlie be with her for those? Is Charlie still part of her family? Is she part of mine, too?

Sometimes it's hard to believe that the death of someone I've never met can bring so much joy. And yet, it's hard to let go of the guilt and the sorrow. Sometimes I think I'll never let it go.

But then I think of a mother who stood and watched, on a Friday afternoon, as her son died a terrible painful death, and even in His agony, told one of His friends to be as a son to her and bring her comfort-- if He says there's comfort to be found, then I'll trust Him for it.