I don’t have anything special to say today. I have said it all before. I miss you. The neighbourhood gardens are full of daffodils. They bloomed early this year. In the morning, when we walk to school to drop E off, I try to notice them all. They’ll be gone soon, and I’ll miss them, too. They remind me so of you, that you were here.
I took M to playtime this morning and that little girl who was born the same day you died was there. I see her everywhere these days, as her brother goes to school with your sister. It doesn’t hurt the way it used to. It’s bittersweet, just like the daffodils, a reminder of what you might have been.
Yesterday, I read a post on Glow in the woods about guilt that made me remember that last day before I knew you were gone, the day you left. M is napping now, and I am alone in the living room, and it is so easy to imagine that it is 2012 again and you have just died, to remember the lethargy and shock of those days. And yet, those days also seem so terribly far away. I read a post the other day about how the raw grief is a place of contact. It’s so true. Some days I long for the kind of grief I used to feel, where it seemed I could still just about touch you. I knew in those few hours that I held you that I would forget so quickly exactly what you looked like and how you felt in my arms. I have never had the kind of memory that holds onto details like those, and I was right…they have mostly slipped away. When I close my mind I don’t see your face, but the idea of your face, the sense of my love for you and what I wanted your life, our life together, to be.
When I read that post about guilt, I felt compelled to respond even though I have been a fairly quiet member of that particular community of late. And the person who started the thread recognized my story, and wrote back saying that she’d been thinking of the daffodils in Vancouver that very morning. I don’t know if I can describe how I felt in that moment, reading those words. You are out there, my little one. Your life is known, your name, your story, remembered. If for no other reason, I am glad I have written all these words here. I said in the first post I ever wrote: these words are all for you. They are, but the longer I write here, the more they are also for all the other babies I have come to love over the years – so many, too many to list here. All those lives that mean something, that have touched my heart, and whose parents I stand beside, as we hold each other up. Your babies are remembered here, they are known, they are loved. I hate that I needed this space so badly, but it has come to seem in so many ways, too, like a gift.
My girl, my love, if you had been born nearer to your due date, born alive, you would be turning three at the end of this month – maybe even today. On the way home from school this afternoon, we’ll buy a bunch of daffodils, probably one of the last bunches we’ll find this season in the shops, and every morning until the last one is gone, I will nod to the garden daffodils, and wish on each one that I could see you, hold you, even just for one more hour, for a moment. But I will know, too, that you are remembered, and there is so much comfort in that knowing.