Dear Beryl

Dear Beryl,

I wish I would have written this letter to you while you were still on earth. But, I couldn't. I could not have said the words that I can tell you now.

I was young then - not realizing, and somewhat uncaring for what lay before my eyes.

But now I think of you and little Jerry. He came into your arms a warm and tender body, needing cuddling and your reassuring love.

Now I remember the days you gradually began to wonder with little fears growing, nagging at your heart. He didn't say his "Da-Da." He didn't raise his dimpled hands and paddy-cake like sister Shari did. You waited - wanting it - so bad.

And I remember the day you took him to the doctor with inquiring eyes. And the doctor weighing the words out carefully that you did not want to hear.

Oh then - you drew him so much closer - you wept over him. You ached and you loved him the more.

Then stretched before you merged the days and nights together. You diapered, powdered, and spoon and spoon you gave the warming nourishment so needed. You packed his helpless body through the summer days, touched his nose with yellow daisies, covered his ears with soft-knit warmth and carried him through colored falls and winter chills.

Oh he knew Beryl, surely he knew and felt the comforts and protection always there - from you!

But what matters today - he's there beside you. And he knows- he knows!

October 15, 1989