When I discovered I was pregnant with my daughter Talya, I knew three things. First, that I would have the baby, despite her father's demand for an 1)abortion and less-than-ideal timing. Second, I knew that I loved her, from the moment I learned of 2)conception. Finally, I knew I would read to the baby, gladly and often. What I did not know, what I could not have known then, was that six weeks after she entered the world, I'd be burying her tiny body in the warm August earth.
Like many parents, months before my daughter's birth, I made 3)fanciful, half-joking 4)projections. A strong and frequent kicker, I expected she'd play soccer; my 5)pomegranate and 6)kale 7)cravings foretold to me her future as a good eater. After her birth, her long fingers and toes convinced me her future was in piano and swimming. I imagined, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, that she'd be an architect, although in truth I have no idea what or who she might have become.
What I know: her fingers and toes were long; she was incredibly vital from the moment she was born. Talya never ate pomegranate or kale, but gained two and a half pounds in her short life on breast milk, nursing vigorously and often. She never played piano herself, but listened closely whenever her father tapped out a melody for her on his piano, 8)cradling her tiny body in one strong forearm. She came into the world, eyes open, 9)wailing, serious and certain in the announcement of her arrival. Five weeks later, Tayla died unexpectedly. Her death was labeled 10)SIDS-related.
Had she lived, I would have read to her constantly.

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