I’ll never forget the day they took her from me, from us. Like all my children, she was meant to be with me for the duration of my life. Instead, she was with me for only a few years.
In the beginning we lived freely together. She swam with me and all the members of our pod, spending her days playing, learning, exploring, and communicating in our unique dialect–in other words, doing all she was born to do. I’d already lost my first baby so I was deeply comforted by her cheerful presence among us.
The day everything changed, we’d gathered with two other pods in what’s meant to be a joyful reunion for our species. This time, though, the hunters were waiting. They trapped us in a cove, all eighty of us. I tried to save her, to save every one of our children. We all did. But it wasn’t enough.
They pushed us apart, strung nets between us. Our children called out to us in panic. The adults were set free, but our children were still trapped, so we kept calling out to them, trying to reassure them. I saw them lift my child from the water. She was crying. I came as close as I could, hoping she could hear my voice amid the violence and the chaos. I never saw her again.
In the many years that have passed, I’ve experienced other losses, but this loss haunts me the most. That’s why I’ll never stop calling to her, never stop thinking of the freedom and joy that should have been hers–and the lifetime together that should have been ours. Wherever she is, I hope she’s been able to find peace.
