To my unborn child: 

Like curls of smoke you exist and yet you evaporate into the air around me. Every day the idea of you lingers like the incense of ancient dens. 

I regret that if we shall meet, I will undoubtedly disappoint you. It is quite possible that my mind will never be able to reconcile the magnitude of the miracle of my body to give life. The responsibility is daunting. My fear of subjecting you to this world is debilitating. 

I can almost make out the outline of your face, can almost hear the sweetness of your voice, we speak in our mother tongue. You and I are inextricable from each other, and even as the ashes of my body are lifted to the sky, there too, your name shall be pronounced in a billowing cloud of smoke.