Today you died in my arms. Your soul was already gone from your tiny body, but your heart beat its last as I held you. So still, so heavy. Not the warm, squirmy, squishy lovebug I held for three and half months; instead a limp, unmoving doll of who you were just four mornings ago. I hope you know how agonizing it was to let you go. I hope you know how much I wanted you to stay. I hope upon hope that you feel my love across the space between us. You couldn’t stay and I can’t follow you, but there’s a space in my heart that’s the exact shape of you. Nothing, no one will ever fill that space, and I won’t be whole again until the day I join you where you are. There’s so much I want to tell you and teach you and learn from you. I can’t do that face to face, so I will write to you from the depths of my heart. We begin now on a journey that I never planned, never dreamed would be ours. A journey of a mother and son separated by too-soon death and shattered dreams. And yet, a journey of hope. Hope for healing, hope for answers, hope for light and peace. Let’s go, then, son. Hold my hand. Help me up when I stumble and fall.
I kiss you.
Love you forever,