Three years

Tomorrow, 17 May, marks S's third anniversary. Not the day he died, and not the day he was born one day later, but the day we were first introduced to his beating heart, strong and thumping as though to announce his arrival. So profound and beautiful was that sound, I imagined that it resonated beyond the walls of that dimly lit ultrasound room, down the corridors of the hospital, out into the sunshiny day for all the world to hear. That is the day we chose to remember, to commemorate.

He wriggled and bounced as if to say Hello! I'm here! Get ready! 

And we fell in love, of course. Truly. Madly. Deeply.


He would have been a handful, that boy.  A little gymnast, more athletic than either his father or I. Or so I think. He had such long fingers, when he was finally born. Would those fingers have been good at throwing and climbing, or more inclined towards quiet pursuits? Writing and drawing? Miniature model building, like his dad?

We were ready. So, so ready. Just not for what came, once we finally got to hold him.

His blanket; too little used

It would mean more than you know, if you could spare a thought for him tomorrow. Maybe do something lovely and life affirming to connect with your inner child. Chase a butterfly. Dig in the dirt. Eat a particularly messy piece of cake. We'll spend the day building sand castles.

********************************

We miss you baby boy. We love you so so much, always and forever. To the moon and back.