Daughter

I've always had a fairly crappy immune system.  I used to get migraines as a little girl, excruciatingly painful headaches that could only be vanquished by darkness and total silence.  I developed asthma at around 21, and have had bouts with allergies, sinus infections, vertigo, and bronchitis.  Having Multiple Sclerosis means regular occurences of neuropathy (numbness and pain in my fingers and toes) not to mention the daily injections of Copaxone that I take to halt the progression of the disease.  At best my various illnesses have been minor annoyances, at worst, they've been painful and life altering but like every single mother I know, I would gladly endure all this and more if I could spare my daughter one minute of pain. Because as shitty as it is to be sick, nothing hurts more than watching your child suffer.

Over the past 8 years she's been called Amira, Mira, Mirabella and Poopy but Lorenzo only called his child by one name: "Daughter".

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hi Daughter!"

"Where are we going today, Daddy?"  Amira would ask from the backseat of our car, smiling at the answer she knew was about to come.

"To bootyland!"  He'd reply and I'd shake my head in mock disgust, watching those two nuts scream with laughter at their oldest joke.

They'd argue about who could eat the most bean laden nachos.

They'd embarrass the hell out of me by singing, "Commas After My Commas" in public, and at the tops of their lungs.

When she wasn't looking, Lorenzo would sneak up behind her, scoop her up, and plop her down into an empty laundry basket.

When he was up late, eating cereal in bed, she'd crawl in beside him to watch Family Guy and American Dad and all the other shows I forbade her to watch before falling into a peaceful sleep on her Daddy's chest.

Daughter.

Children are resilient.  Amira goes to school every day and afterwards, she plays in the park with her friends.  She goes to hip hop and theater classes, movies and museums but every, single night she tells me how much she misses her father.  How she wishes he could come back to us.  She misses going to Home Depot and Whole Foods with him. She misses our trips to Vegas.  She misses Lorenzo sneaking bites of her black beans when she isn't looking.

She misses her Daddy.

And there's nothing I can do to fill this void.