Sometimes I feel like maybe I wanted him too much. Like the thought of him was too perfect, too necessary to my existence. It literally did not exist in my realm of possibilities that he was anything but inevitable. Did my own hubris bring me down?
I wrote to him my entire pregnancy. I always intended him to read those letters. I always intended them to be a conversation, a means of marking memories, things I didn’t want to forget. There is nothing I want to forget.
I remember every moment of my pregnancy. I remember every moment of my son’s short life. I remember conception and ultrasounds and morning sickness. I remember every tiny kick and movement. I treasure these things. I treasure these memories.
Even the screams — even that moment.
There is absolutely nothing I want to forget.