2016

I hate the phrase "time heals all wounds".  Because it doesn't really.  All it does is add another layer over the top of a broken heart, a lame attempt to seal inside grief and pain and tragedy.

It's been three years since our baby girl died.  All along the way I have imagined her, wondering how she would be on this day when she should've been alive.  Even now, after having a baby boy last year, I look down at him nursing and I think how I never got to care for Beatrice this way.  She never got to know the feeling of being a baby cradled in her mother's arms, being comforted, fed and loved.  Looking into each others face and eyes, we seem to know what the other is thinking.  She never got to play with my hair as my son so loves to do.

I admit, I nurse him now and at times in the half dark, my eyes see you there instead.  I see your eyes open, gazing at me in sleepy contentment as babies do.  I see your eyes open.

And my comfort helps you sleep and your eyes slowly close and I would not be afraid to lay you down as I sometimes am with my son.  You would be here and I would not be afraid.