Dear Abram

November 28, 2018

Dear Abram,

This is the third year I’ve sat in the soft glow of our Christmas tree, writing you a letter, both with tears falling for what we lost and warm gratitude for what we have and will always have of you.

Every season has you in it. Spring brings the reminder of when we thought you would arrive with the first of the flowers and the light green of a new season. Summer is when we found out we were pregnant with you, those trips to the beach climbing the sand dunes and watching the waves with you still unannounced in my belly, a joyful family secret. Fall brought a growing belly, your kicks, anticipation of being a family of 5; I remember after we knew you couldn’t survive…sometime in mid-November, feeling like I was in a fog of disbelief as I watched the girls jump in leaf piles, thinking how can this be happening to our baby. Thanksgiving, the gathering of all our family, hoping to surround you with as much love as we could in the time we had. Our last days with you. And then oddly enough, Winter, bringing the healing peace of gentle snowfalls, clear night skies, and the magic of an evergreen, reminding us that your evergreen spirit will always be within those twinkling boughs. Every season has brought us new stories as a family, but they all hold quiet ways we find you in our lives still. I am so grateful for that.

I’ve realized that the deep aches never go away. I will always wish you were here with us. Sometimes the grieving will come back with a heaviness, feeling impossible and full of the pain and disbelief we felt two years ago. But many days, we feel peace. I know this isn’t from a lack of thinking of you, but rather that your spirit has found so many nooks of moments, and places, and people, where you feel nestled in our world.

The girls watched Coco this year, an awesome movie about how many remember the loved ones who have died, and the ways they carry them, bringing them back over the bridge to celebrate their presence in their lives for a day. At the end, they show the family singing and dancing, with the spirits of their loved ones, glowing in marigold orange, dancing beside them, arms around them.  I cried watching it, but it was because I know this is how we know you, this is how we feel you.  When me and your dad, your sisters and baby brother are piled in bed reading at night, I can picture you, outlined in glowing orange, leaning your head on your sisters’ shoulders, or rubbing Bryce’s head like I know you would have done in life, leaning back on your dad, head tucked under his chin. Sometimes you’ll hold our hands during a particularly lovely walk in the woods, or sometimes you’ll skip and laugh with the kids on the beach or in the yard.

I think of the ways we all find you. The girls as they look for your star in the night. Pops in Evergreen Cove, Granny planting flowers around your tree, your Mor Mor and Pop Pop, in strings of lights around the tree or silver bells, Ty and Casey as we watch John ring your windchime, Jordan in his letter describing how we will find you in the moments when our worlds intersect, so many dear friends and family when they check in thinking of you at different times. Your village is deep, Abram. You are so loved. Your sisters love your blanket, love your photos, love remembering you purposefully. Your little brother has you within him; I know. And your Dad and I…you are always with us.

Whenever I write the girls on their birthdays, I write what I love about them.  Our time with you here was so short, but there is so much I treasure about you, sweet boy. I love that you surprised us – when we found out we were pregnant; when we found out you were a boy. I loved watching you wiggle on ultrasounds; I love that you sucked your thumb. I love that you kicked extra hard in my belly after Ben and Jerry’s, so we could remember what it was like to carry you the only way we could.  I love that you looked like your dad. I loved your profile and tiny, tiny perfect hands. I love that you heard your sisters say goodnight to you every night. I love that you stayed with us until we had our Christmas tree. That was the last time I felt you kick; I’m so thankful that memory, for you being forever in our Christmas magic.  Even through my tears, I love the tiny foot prints on our tree, and each year, I lightly touch the ink knowing your actual feet were there…your physical footprint as treasured as the many others you’ve left within so many.

I believe, baby boy, that you have brought more kindness into this world., more understanding, more compassion. You’ve made us slow down. You’ve helped us remember with others who miss their babies, connecting our hearts. Your little soul has given us and this world light. It seeps into moments and reminds us to really see. And that light has only gotten brighter and warmer.

You have a brother now. When we had Bryce at the hospital, your Dad and I walked the halls. We passed the room where you were born. My heart has never felt what it did inside those walls. But I was also grateful seeing that door, because I love that your story is within that hospital too, just like your brother and sisters. You were held and loved and passed around loving arms, and it felt like the world put its arms around you and our family that day too.

I wish every day that we got to see you grow up. Adalyn and Bria ask often where exactly you are, and if you’re still growing. I usually tell them the truth – I don’t know. You might be a tiny baby, held and rocked by the loved ones who have gone before – Addie insists Gladys would be by your side. But the girls usually think that you might be growing up, and they try to imagine who you are.  They love eating Ben and Jerry’s to celebrate your birthday.

I’ve learned that answers aren’t black and white like I want them to be. But on April 6, the day you should have turned one, I woke up when it was still dark, everyone still asleep; the house quiet as it ever gets. As I was waking up, I swear, I heard a baby’s laugh. My brain tried to explain it away, but my heart kept saying, that was Abram. I choose to believe you found your way to us that morning. Moments when I truly feel like your mom, I hold those tight. Those are the kinds of answers we get, and I’ll take them.

Two years ago, we memorized every piece of you. We smiled; we cried; we held each other; we held you. Wrapped in your sweet blanket, I remember us saying out loud to you that we would love you always. As I look at your footprints on the tree, I think of when your dad and I got married. Reading what is said at so many ceremonies: love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends.  

I believe this, and I believe you teach us it again and again. Every day, little one. Every day, we love you. I am so thankful for the light that is your beautiful life.

All my heart,

Mom