“I still miss those I loved who are no longer with me, but I find I am grateful for having loved them. The gratitude has finally conquered the loss.” —Rita Mae Brown

What is certain? Nearly nothing. Waiting is like purgatory that middle passage corridor I was told was the reason to christen me and give me a name I’ve never used.

“Why did you baptize me Mary Ellen?”

“Molly isn’t a saint’s name. You’d be a corridor baby.”

The image of all these badly named babies, the misspelled and trendy, the nicknames and the silly, fill my brain. All those babies waiting to be allowed to enter a world deeply in need of their newness, their babyish ways, their ability to make adults feel helpless, uncertain, afraid.

Love is standing on the edge of a cliff. Waiting hurts our soul. I wait to hear if my sister has died from the injuries experienced from a hit-and-run. She has. I still see that waiting room, her husband standing in the corner shoeless, my father stone faced, heart breaking fluorescent lights, wanting to turn on some innocent minor accident victim and demand to know why they, anyone, is still alive while my shining star has gone dark? My father and I drive home to tell my mother she has lost her eldest daughter. We pass the airport and I watch as a plane taxies to take-off. I will take off.

“Don’t leave ,”my father says, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

My mother stands at the top of the stairs as if afraid to descend, the waiting has etched new years on her face. She stares at me. I am the cuddly love baby. I am the comforter. I am the weak link, an alcoholic, walking a thin line of sobriety.

She steps slowly down. “Is she alive?”

“Brain dead,” I say.

She moves to slap me across the face. How dare I? Punish the messenger even if the messenger is equally broken. Stay upstairs, fingers in ears, la, la, la.

Nine months of waiting, seventy-two hours of giving birth, a frenzy of rage and love and anticipation and fear. Baby, take your time. Baby, I will wait forever. This forced patience is priceless. I walk in circles, chanting some childhood song, The Streets of Laredo with its dying cowboy, You Are My Sunshine, some ancient Joni Mitchell, Joni, childless, Judy Collins, the mother of a suicide. Give me my daily bread. 

There is no Olly Olly oxen free. Touching that tree, that fence, that dog, that wall will not protect you. You are out. Find some small moment to remember how he felt, his bum against your wrist, the breath of him, his face, your sister’s eyes. Forgive your wild sister. Forgive your first and second husbands who made you wait in dread and sadness. Forgive your best friend who died and the one who will not answer your messages who has decided she will do better without you. Forgive all those remembered slights before you understand the truth: nothing is forever. We will all die. Reluctantly, angrily, peacefully, no matter what your name. The babies have been allowed to transit. Their wide-open eyes are clear as morning.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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