You were not a wanted part of my life. You came into it as some sort of woeful filler for a little boy who never made it safely into my world, this world. We were expecting a living baby, a tiny, living being, to wrap into soft blankets, to hold close and whisper love songs to. We expected to fold him into a carseat and drive him home to be welcomed by his big brother and sister. We weren't expecting that we would, indeed, have a baby, fold him into soft blankets, hold him close and whisper love songs to him, never to be heard, here, anyway. And there was no carseat for our baby.
Instead we called a funeral home. They came to take our little boy out of the hospital and we, we left with you.
In the beginning, I didn't even know you existed. You just were. While everyone around me seemed to expect your arrival, I was focused on the child I had lost. I couldn't see past the moments I had spent with him, the feeling of a sheet against my face, the warmth of his foot against my fingers, the very real and taunting kicks I still felt within my belly. And as I was wheeled out of the hospital on that hot, bright September morning, what I felt was my arms, folded, in my lap. Empty. I didn't know then, that that was you, seeping, ever so slowly, into my life.
In the beginning, I didn't even know you had a name. I didn't know I would have to name you. You, just were.