I never knew her. I never saw her. I don't even know for certain that my baby was a girl. I lost her at four and a half months. There was no labor, no mess, no nothing. One day I was pregnant, the next day I was not. My husband thought the best way to get over it was not to talk about it. IT. I didn't lose a baby - it was a fetus, according to him. Being young and naïve, I went along with him. But this unspoken strain ended our already shaky marriage five months later. I separated from my husband on the very day that had been my expected due date.

Two years later, all the grief I had neatly packed away and denied from the first day began to surface. Actually, the grief grabbed me by the lapel and shook me hard. I would find myself awake at 1:30 a.m. staring at the television, my eyes burning, my body shivering. I would have to brace myself for the silence that came when I shut off the television.

I thought I was nuts. It had been two years. I should have been over this by now. Then I went to HAND. I found out that I was not crazy or being melodramatic. I had just never faced my loss. The parents at HAND suggested that I make my baby real: name her, love her, bury her, grieve for her.

Now when it's the middle of the night and I'm staring at the blank screen I tell myself, "It's okay, Linda. It's okay to grieve for your baby. It's okay to miss your husband, your home, your dog. I love you, Linda. You'll be all right. Try to get some sleep now, and sweet dreams." My ghostly reflection encourages me to turn out the lights, dissolving us both into the darkness. My dream makes my baby real.

Angelica's birthday party is in less than a week. Two years old. Terrible twos. Filled with a sense of excitement, she runs out back to play. In the Indian summer of September dry heat lies heavily across the back yard. By mid-August you would swear the grass could not get any drier, but it does. Angelica seems to draw her energy from the dazzling sunlight. She runs across the bleached blond pasture to the shade of the large oak tree at the far side. Streaked with sunshine, her auburn hair bounces wildly, untamed. The pure sound of her laugh carries to my ear.

Then something changes as the high tinkle of Angelica's laughter echoes in my head. I see the blue sky is the same, the temperature of the day is the same, but the location is different. The blond pasture is replaced by a green, manicured lawn with contrasting white stone markers, evenly spaced.

Angelica Mae DeMartino reads the one at my feet. I am only able to read the headstone briefly for my vision warps and twists as tears well up in my eyes. All my strength drains from me, so that I am left shaking. My arms ache as I hold myself; my legs tremble as I lower myself to my knees and bow my head.

I see Angelica now. She is beside my Grandma. It looks like a B-movie version of what heaven would be like: mist-covered ground, a park bench. If I sit on the bench, they come to me. Angelica climbs into my lap, and I tell her that I love her. I take my Grandma's hand and ask her if she will take care of Angelica for me since I can't stay. She nods her head and pats my hand. Kissing them both, I take my leave, knowing I can come back to visit any time I need to.