On your last night, I bathed you. You had two favorite places, my arms, and water. Bath time was sheer joy. I had washed your fine, downy hair and cleaned behind your ears. Listened and watched as you splashed about until your fingers and toes were pruned. And then, I dried you off and laid you down in your crib.
I sang you our song, Nobody’s Gonna Love You by Band of Horses. As I left your room, you were humming and babbling to yourself. Later, when your daddy got home from work we went in and checked on you together, laughing about how sweet you looked as you slept. We said goodnight once again, and closed the door. When I’d open the door the next morning on July 3rd, your body would be cold and lifeless.
As we approach the third year since you left this earth, I’ve realized what this feeling is that overtakes me in these days leading up to the anniversary of your death. It is anguish. It is anger. It is longing. It is the grief I’ve felt every one of the 1,094 days that have passed since your death robbed us of you. Magnified by the tick of another year after, another year without.
7 months with you was not enough to gracefully traverse a lifetime of your absence. But I would rather have known you for just that brief time, and experience this eternity of pain, than never to have known you at all.