I hate that long after I have forgotten how it was to feel pregnant with him, I am left with the loss of him.
I hate that the memories are so few, gathered under such immense pressure, that I can barely hold them together. They are barely worth having. I hate that I cannot remember the size of him, or the feel of him or the sound of him, save two sounds I would choose to forget.
I hate that the sense of him is gone, that the surety of him is gone, the realness of him is gone.
Long after the precious little body is gone and lost to my memory, so that kissing and holding a blanket is nearly enough – is nearly more real -Â the awful, dreadful horror of having lost our child is still here.
My boy is dead. He is always, always going to be dead. I’m left picking up the pieces, witnessing the effects, of something which has exploded inside these four walls and cannot possibly have been worth it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t conjure enough substance to the experience to make any of this worth it. There just isn’t enough.