Dust

Imagine that you're holding your baby. Gently, carefully, making sure nothing happens to him.

Imagine all the dreams you've wished for him.

Think about how dearly you love him. How your heart might explode.

Then imagine taking a polishing rag.

Dusting him off.

And setting him back on your shelf.

I think sometimes it's easy to think of our babies gone on to Heaven in the abstract. They're not really here, they weren't here that long...and they're nothing like the ones running around the house now.

Few people met them. Fewer people think of them most days.

All of that is understandable. I get it; I do. I don't fault a single person for not having my boys at the forefront of their minds (my goodness, Mira and Edward keep me busy enough that they are not always at the forefront of my own.)

But then some days, the gravity of it all hits me.

My perfect, sweet, beautiful boys.

I dust them.

I worry that when their brother and sister run around the house they might knock into their shelves and break them.

I worry that if that ever happened I might see their ashes.

I don't ever want to see their ashes.

I think about what it would be like to rock them, cradle them, caress their cheeks. Instead of holding these little boxes with hard edges holding what's left of them.

I think about how I'd rather not have memorabilia sitting next to those boxes. How I'd rather be making new memories instead of holding onto these trinkets.

I think about how this April we will be celebrating and grieving not one but two birthdays within two weeks. I think about two little boys who never got the chance to grow up.

I think about how we always wanted four babies. How we got them.

How half of them are unseen.

Because they're on my shelf.

Needing to be dusted.

Tomorrow marks one year and seven years since we got our boys' diagnosis. Missing them greatly every single day. ❤❤