It’s 2:30am and I’m wide awake. Wishing you were here, squirming and making your cute grunting sounds while I mix up your bottle. There’s so much empty space in my room now. Your bassinet is gone. And the crib you were supposed to grow into. Some nights I’m too exhausted not to sleep. But other nights I lay here just staring at that emptiness.
Like your dresser drawers, useless since I bagged up all of your stuff. The tiny newborn clothes that were still so big on your tiny little body. The 3 months things you were going to wear as you got bigger. Your blankets and bibs you never got to use.
Like your side of the closet. Now just a section of blank hangers next to your big brother’s clothes.
Like my arms. How they ache to feel your snuggles. That familiar pain that spreads from deep in my heart and throughout my entire upper body. Sometimes it hurts so badly, that I can hardly catch my breath.
Like the hope the doctors tried to give me for the future, when they ruled out any connection between my two boys’ deaths.
Like the looks on their faces when I told them I could no longer have babies. I got a tubal. He was supposed to be it.
Like the space in my heart. A second, brand new hole, that I already know will never heal. There’s only so much of it left. And it’s broken and bruised. But with what I do have left, I hope I’ll use it to make my boys proud. To leave them a legacy of love and hope and grace. To raise their brother to leave his own mark in an even bigger way. I’ll use it to share how they touched me. In hopes that they’ll continue to touch others. My heart will always hurt to be without them. But will still swell with pride that they are mine.
Empty. But so full at the same time.