Dear Abram

Dear Abram

I am writing this in the soft gentle glow of our Christmas tree, your tiny footprints among the needles and lights, the salt dough handprints of your sisters and cousins, the season of songs, nostalgia and giving.

This is not how I imagined writing to you a year after you were born. It’s supposed to be Springtime, with photos of first outings and stroller rides, chubby legs and cheerios, milestones and the many days in between of raising 3 kids. Sometimes I imagine what you’d look like; how you’d sleep; the girls holding you uncomfortably. I imagine you growing up. In my mind, you’re fast, and you love bikes and basketball and math. I imagine you are sweet and stubborn and soft hearted, like your dad and your older sisters. I could fill pages on every specific thing I wish we had with you, a thousand notebooks on what I’d pictured in our lives for you and with you.

Some moments still surprise me. Family and a few friends came over the day after Thanksgiving to gather for you. I had planned on everyone putting painted thumbprints on a flower pot to decorate it in your memory, where we could plant something in the spring around your due date, so you could be surrounded by the hands of people who love you. I realized the night before that I forgot to buy a pot. I grabbed one from the basement, dumped out the dirt, and called it a win. I actually laughed to myself – typical third kid, getting a leftover pot from the basement, right? I loved that I felt like a real parent to you for a moment. Then I began to wash the dirt from the clay pot, and it reminded me so much of gently holding a newborn for a bath, kneeling beside the tub and trying not to drop while carefully washing away the dirt. Suddenly my heart stopped and I felt this stabbing pain that we could never do that for you. Not one, simple, nervous, parent-hovering, nurturing bath. It broke my heart all over again, wishing I could hold you, feed you, rock you, be your mom here in this house how we imagined. I treasure all the places we find you, but many times, I simply wish it was here in our arms, where you should be.

Of course I wish I wasn’t writing this, crying in front of a Christmas tree. But at the same time, I know I am grateful to be writing to you at all, with all my heart. If we had to do it all over again, we would, because it means knowing you. The what if’s are loud at times, but what is, who you are, well that’s what real. And there is just so much about your sweet short life that is beautiful.

A year ago today, we held you. We memorized your features. Your profile, your tiny nose and ears, your hands, your feet that were so clearly your dad’s, the ribs that barely held up your chest, but protected that strong, strong heart as long as it beat. A year ago, we waited in the hospital for the Pitocin and contractions to kick in. Family visited. People messaged and emailed and called. Erin made us laugh and let us cry and then made us laugh again. Nurses listened. Friends brought chocolate. KK brought your blanket, wrapped in flannel. We waited. It was odd not feeling you move anymore. Adalyn knew you had gone the night before. I told the girls, say goodnight to Abram like they adorably did to you every night. Addie looked at me and said, “Mama, I think Abram died already.” She knew you were headed for the sky, that Grandma and Gladys were waiting.  When you were delivered, Erin said with caution and care in her voice that you were small and very fragile, but beautiful.

I felt everything when I held you.

Your dad held you the most; he rocked you like he did the girls. When your grandparents passed you around to each have their turn, they didn’t hurry. Casey was there too while Ty stayed with the kids. Everyone took their time, and I remember being so comforted by the love on their faces as they looked down at you. They held you, they rocked you, they loved you. They got to be grandparents with you in their arms, for a night.

A year later, I set out this notebook at your gathering in case anyone wanted to write a note – miss you, love you, a short little whatever. When I came back to the notebook, it had pages of writing, each one an actual letter beginning with “Dear Abram.” You are so loved, and you are lucky to have a village, near and far, who have love that would fill a notebook, just like your mama.

What I will think of every November 28 is you, and all we love about you. I believe your life is a beautiful one. I believe you bring out kindness and understanding. I believe you foster faith and patience. I believe you give strength to us, and perspective of how big the sky is, how deep the river runs. I believe you are that catch of light in moments of joy. I believe you offer us gratitude, reminding us to not take this view of life, this earth, each other for granted. I believe you are within our hands as we join them around the table as family. Your life is everywhere.

I remember you every day. I remember your face, and go back to the pictures with your dad and the girls, who coo over your little feet and tiny arms and hands. I remember your kicks. I remember you moving the most after ice cream, how much you loved Ben and Jerry’s, smart boy. I remember the trips we went on; I hope you heard the sounds and adventure and loved it. I remember the girls hugging my belly, them and your dad talking through the thin barrier of my skin while you answered with somersaults. I remember your heartbeat, the strongest thing in you. I remember calling you Belle; I remember finding out you were a boy. I remember naming you, baptizing you, people’s hands on my stomach for you. And baby boy, on this day especially, I remember holding you.  I remember wrapping you in your half of the blanket we share, soft colors and a patch of dinosaur pajamas we bought for you. I remember you, peaceful and perfect as we told you we’d love you always.

And we will, little one.

I love you,  

Mom