Christine Pine

I still wonder who you might have been—
a laugh echoing through quiet rooms,
tiny shoes by the front door,
finger-painted suns hanging crooked on the fridge.
I gave you a name before I ever gave you breath.
Isabella.
A whispered dream folded into tomorrow,
a story my heart kept telling
even when life chose another ending.
I imagine your hand wrapped around mine,
asking impossible questions,
chasing butterflies that never stopped to explain
why some wishes bloom
and others remain only seeds.
There are birthdays that never came,
candles that were never lit,
photographs that exist only in imagination,
and lullabies that still live in my throat,
waiting for ears that will never hear them.
Yet somehow, you changed me.
You taught me that love does not always require a heartbeat.
Sometimes it lives in empty rooms,
in names spoken into silence,
in futures that never arrive
but are mourned all the same.
If there is a place where forgotten dreams gather,
I hope you are there—
running through fields of wildflowers,
wearing the smile I always pictured,
untouched by sorrow or loss.
And if, by some mystery beyond understanding,
love can cross the distance
between what is and what might have been,
know this:
You were wanted.
You were imagined.
You were cherished before you could ever exist.
And in one quiet corner of my heart,
you will always be my daughter,
my beautiful Isabella,
the child I carry not in my arms,
but forever in my soul.