It still surprises me sometimes.
I can generally tell your story most days–“My son was stillborn. He would be 2 1/2 years old today.” I ran a booth at the birth and baby fair in my town last fall, and the words came out so easily. It bothered me to be able to reduce your story so simply. But I did it, and I shared information, and I can only hope I gave people something to think about. Because losing a child…well, you already know this.
So most days I feel “fine.” I live life and I care for your sister, and when the subject comes up, I talk about you. I love talking about you. And sometimes I feel bad, even though I know better, that I hardly cry anymore. Your death has become superficially “normal.” (It will never be normal).
And then days like today. It is quiet, and I am going through old emails, and it jumps in my face. You aren’t two weeks old. You never got to be. And I realize how much I checked out of those early days. And when I see these things, now, it hits me with immediacy.
I miss you, my love. I miss you with parts of me gone silent and sleeping. With parts that are rusted and dusty and hiding. I miss you with an ache so deep it doesn’t know how to function in the light of the sun. So deep I can’t carry it and also keep living. But also built into me. You live inside me, and this is my world.
You never got to be two weeks old. I never got to be two weeks deep in that kind of innocence. And somehow, I still treasure this. It was meant for you.
I love you.