You wouldn’t know it, but this photo has all my children in it.
When we first came here, all that time ago, 6 weeks after Freddie, I hunted for him. I found him here, by the stepping stones at this river. It’s the only place I’ve ever really felt him, in the swish of the wind and a patch of grass.
We’ve not been back since. For whatever reason, a group sense of discomfort, coincidence, my silent steering away? I don’t know. But we stayed away.
Today we went. We walked to the stones the other way, looking across the valley at the high path we took back then, my struggling body on a path I would never had tried to make it walk had I had a living baby in my arms, not a ghost baby in my heart. I thought of myself, watched her walk that path, that day. Tried to remember how it felt.
Then we reached the stones, crossed them, sat where we sat before.
And there he was again. A single stem of grass, different to all the others, bobbing and weaving at me.
I felt him. I did. It’s the only place it happens.
I’m glad it did. I’m glad he’s there.
It makes it a happy place.