I remember that first waiting room after the death of my son. I remember walking in, surrounded by people. They were pregnant and they were holding newborn babies, and I wanted to scream. And now I’m in a different place, and I want to say that I still see you.
I will always wonder about the color of your eyes
It feels funny to say that: I miss you. It feels like there should be another word, something that acknowledges that part of what is missing is this unrealized idea.
When I think of thankfulness, all I can think of is the time I had with you. The whispered conversations. The whoosh of your first movements. The tactile knowledge of your hands, and your face, and your very active feet.
Your donor has brown eyes. So do I. I still wonder if yours would have been green or violet or newborn baby blue. I still wonder if I should have waited just one more moment longer–surely you were only sleeping?
I peeked under a bit. I wanted that smell. I wanted something stronger than the silence at his birth.