Today it is six months since we found out you were gone. These six months have been the hardest of my life, and I have missed you every day. I don't often think to myself what you would have been or could have been or should have been. I try not to let myself imagine how big you would be by now, how much you would be kicking, how many of your little things would be waiting for you in your nursery. I don't know how many weeks you would be or what size fruit you would correspond to. I didn't follow your growth after you left us because it hurt too much to pretend like that.
But I do remember how happy I was when I was pregnant with you and you were growing, however slowly and unsteadily. I often think about the night I ate so many berries and then threw them all up again not even an hour later. Every bit of discomfort or pain I felt then is precious to me now, because it meant that you were alive.
You weren't meant to live, I suppose, though I will never know why. And yet I am so grateful that I had the chance to love you, even if only for a few weeks. Those weeks were a brief spot of joy in a long, sad year and I will remember them all my life. I hope that they were weeks of peace and joy in the fact of being alive for you, too. I hope that somehow you felt my love.
Reinvention of a blog
6 months ago