Some days still, I have flashback moments. Submerged in the feeling, the sensation, the moment. The sound of panic and fear in her voice when she called. The frustration while running down the hall alongside the gurney that I couldn’t get her earrings out for her. Holding my son’s face between my hands and looking deeply into his eyes, telling him firmly that everything was going to be all right. I truly believed that it would be, babies are born earlier than 34 weeks and do just fine. That feeling of relief when the nurse came out and said he was here, having a little trouble breathing, but someone would be out shortly to show us up to the NICU. A sinking feeling, like drowning slowly, as those minutes lengthened and we were left standing and wondering. Trying to grasp the look on the doctor’s face as he came through those doors, his words “I’m so sorry, so sorry”, echoing in my head.

Two years since I last held you in my arms. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you, but your birthday is the hardest. When your little brother sits in his swing by your memorial garden, I watch him. He sometimes makes noises that sound like he is carrying on an entire conversation with someone, his back to me. Other times, he gazes up into the top of a tree and the most beatific smile spreads across his entire face and I know. I know you are there with him. You make a perfect guardian angel. It may not have been the choice we would have made for you, but I trust God. He knows a bit more than I do.

I love you Collin Michael. And although I miss you daily, I know that when my time comes to enter the long darkness you will be there. My bright beacon, my candle in the night, to guide me to the light.

(picture credit to ~ethereal-forest303 from Deviant Art)