A Collection of Short Stories

Talitha Koum

A small room with smaller things gathering the smallest particles of dust. Why all this commotion and wailing? The child is not dead but asleep.

He took her by the hand and said to her,

"Talitha koum!"

"Little girl, I say to you, get up!"

Immediately the girl stood up and began to walk around. At this they were completely astonished.

Mark, 5:41.

5, 41, over 2000? How many parents need to be punished? How many babies need to forget to breathe? They say everything happens for a reason, but this time there is none.

Tali, normally when we get a call from your Grandpa Jeff its advice, a check up, a congratulations, a story. He's great at telling stories. I save breath by telling people that Grandpa Jeff is my godfather. He was there at my baptism, representing our close ties to a part of our family that is full of faith- faith that never wavered. I'm told they had thousands praying for you.

Talitha, when I first held you, you cried. At first, I just thought it was the natural aura I gave off that seemed to make all babies hate me. As it turns out, I just didn't know what I was doing. For the record, I still don't, because I should've gone to that hospital with my parents that night. I was too busy living my life while you were losing yours.

If I had the opportunity, I would've given into my temptations.  I would've channeled whatever higher power there was into my voice and yelled, as you were so named:

Talitha, koum!

Talitha, cumi!

Little girl, I say unto thee, get up!

Young woman, get up!

Damsel, I say unto thee, arise!

Time to get up, little girl!  

And perhaps my voice would've been so filled with strength that it would boom and reverberate off the cold tile floors and harsh walls to shake your synapses into firing again. It would shake your lungs into rising again, your heart into pumping again, all without those silly tubes you are tangled up in like a noose. You would squirm in the uncomfortable bed and wail like you did when you first entered into the world. I promise we would all welcome you.

Tali May, the second time I got to hold you, you didn't cry. You smiled. I had so much to tell you. As often as I could, I would watch that beautiful face blossom into a even more beautiful woman. First words, first love, first job. You would breeze by every milestone so quickly that your parents couldn't hold you enough, that your uncles couldn't tease you enough, and you would stand as tall and strong as the girl from the parable that preceded you. Now, you're a story in the family legacy. This time, there would be no happy ending.

Talitha May, there's going to be too much of you left behind. You will be a gift to many other struggling babies, bring light into the life of parents searching for their one opportunity. Will those same parents realize that at the joy of their own miracle comes the sorrow of others? Will they know that the organs that give their infant life came from an infant who so suddenly died? There are also the inanimate pieces of you left, tokens and possessions that your parents thought they would use to their fullest. A small room with smaller things gathering the smallest particles of dust.

I guess that's why they're called miracles.