WARNING!!

before you read, know that this is a fictional short story that contains the death of a young child and themes of religion. If those make you uncomfortable, feel free to click off now.

proceed with caution :D

I still remember the day I had my baby, the cutest little flower in the garden. I was happy, happier than I've ever been.
I took her home and put on her baby clothes, the cutest ones I could find. But no clothing could be as beautiful as my baby was. She was perfect. I'd take her to the temple as often as I could, and I'd show off how cute she was anytime I could.
The joys of being a parent.
Did raising her have its hard times? Why of course, sometimes I couldn't find a reason for her to be crying and it was non-stop screaming until I guessed correctly, sometimes I couldn't find where she was in the house, and of course she made a lot of messes. But despite it all, she was my baby, and I love my baby more than anything.

I watched her grow, eventually she was able to babble, and crawl, and walk. I was so grateful to be there for every step of it. I could already envision her going off to school, making her own offerings, finding her own work, oh what a wonderful life she'd live.
Every night I lit my candle and asked for nothing more than for my baby to be happy, because that was all I truly needed to see.
She began learning to draw, she'd scribble on walls and floors and occasionally paper. Some of her drawings were of me, my greatest honor above all else.
Seeing my baby grow up a little bit more each day became my hobby. Anytime she spoke a new word or drew a new thing I'd clap and cheer and make her the best recipes I knew.

However, of course the wonders couldn't last forever. I slowly began to lack the energy to play with my baby all the time, and instead sat watching her with her toys. I felt myself grow ill as my coughs grew more frequent and more intense, as my breathing became harder, and as I began to lose my appetite.
I was fine with that, taking some generic medicine hoping it'd go away. But that's when my baby began to change as well.
I noticed her coughing a lot, and I noticed her breathing become irregular, and so I rushed to the doctor to know what was happening.

The doctor informs me the worst news, not only have I fallen ill, I have brought my baby down with me. I'm sure I will make it, yet my baby was still young and vulnerable to disease. I beg the doctor for a cure, but none are going to act fast enough.
I take my baby into my hands with teary eyes and I smile at her. She's so beautiful, so perfect.
I'm unable to do anything but hold her, hold her tighter than I've ever held.
We return home, I give her the medicine she needs, and once she's tucked away in bed I run to light my prayer candle. Looking to the skies I say my request:
"Please allow my baby a fast recovery."
And the next morning I walk to the temple with a bouquet of flowers tied together with dyed twine, decorated with crystals, and I offer it humbly as a sacrifice on behalf of my baby.

The days pass and I'm holding my baby, playing with my baby, singing to my baby. I refuse to leave her alone for one second, I'm sure she'll heal. I run to the temple each morning with my kindest prayers and finest flowers, but my garden eventually runs out of flowers, and my baby out of strength.
I sob seeing her as she's no longer able to eat, my heart breaks as I see her struggle to breathe. The doctor says he's done all he can, all I could have then was hope.
I hold onto that hope, I increase my prayers, I meditate regularly, I write my baby songs of dedication. I was foolish, hope would never be enough.

I awake one morning and go to wake my baby up for breakfast only to find her body cold. The plate falls out of my hands as I pick her up and check her breathing, I run to the doctor for any last hope.
She's gone.
My baby's gone.
I'm forced to walk home with my baby's lifeless body in my hands, her soul having ascended while I slept, without warning nor a chance to say goodbye. Had my offerings not been pretty enough? My prayers not heartfelt enough? Had I done something wrong?
As I arrive home, I break down, tearing off my headpiece and falling to the ground. I pass out from exhaustion of crying for so long and awake only at night, right in time for my candle.

My makeup runs down with my tears as I hold my crown in my hands, my hair messy, the messiest it's ever been as I walk to my altar. I light my prayer candle with shaky hands, and looking to the skies I cry out my sole question:
"Why have you taken my baby from me?"