Today marks six months from the moment you were taken out of my body, completely still, your heart no longer beating alongside mine. I am halfway through the first year without you. I am not sure how to feel today. I miss you desperately and yet I am growing accustomed to this new reality. The one where there is no you.
I wonder about missing you, about the strength of the hurt. I wonder how long I will remember the fragility of your skin and the way it felt like I might rip you apart with the lightest touch. I wonder how clearly I will recall the image of your tiny naked body as time marches on. Already the memory of your feathery weight on my chest is fading. One pound, one ounce. But you felt solid too, in your little yellow and blue blanket. I held you and counted your ten fingers, your ten toes. I marveled at your unfinished perfection, your stillness and the fact that you had your Mamaw’s nose. I watched your daddy hold you. My heart cracked open with a mother’s love.
I still cry Benjamin. Sometimes softly, tears barely spilling over. Sometimes with great racking sobs. We love you very much and – oh god – wish you were here with us. But you know that – I know you do. We don’t get the gift of your smile, your laugh, your boy-ness as you learn to crawl, walk, dance, kick a soccer ball. We don’t get to watch you explore the world, hear your voice, learn who you are. The gifts you left us with are of a different sort, based in faith, belief, love and the world of spirit. With your death, you’ve asked us to live our best lives. We are doing our best to answer that call.
Watch over your big sister, my sweet son. She wanted a little brother. She wants a mama and daddy who aren’t sad anymore. It’s been hard on all of us.
But I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t take the experience of you away. Not for a second.
I love you Ben. I always will. Wherever you are, my son, take good care.
with fierce love and a healing heart,