Dear Abram _4

 

Nov 28, 2020

 

Dear Abram

 

It’s been four years. I never know what to call today. The day you were born, the day you died, the day we held you. It was the hardest day of my life, and yet I’m so grateful for it.

 

Addie and Bria still ask if you are turning four or if you are still a baby. Each time they ponder whether you are still a tiny little love, being cradled and passed around by your great-grandparents, or a 4 year old riding a big wheel and building sandcastles. I wonder too. I wonder all the things I imagined – do you have that blonde hair and straight brow; do you look like your brother; are you quiet like your dad? Do you still hear Bria, and Addie, and Bryce talking to you? I hope that one day I’ll know.

 

Every year of grieving is different. At the beginning, it was so raw. Addie loves Hamilton, and the song “Quiet Uptown” made me cry, cry, cry, when Angelica sings “They are living with the unimaginable” after they lose their son. Even when it’s your reality, it’s unimaginable. This was an election year, just like when I was pregnant with you, and all the debates and signs and fears and rhetoric reminded me so much of those months before we lost you, when it never crossed our mind that anything could go wrong. Losing you was unimaginable. I thought you were a girl. I thought you were perfectly healthy. A week after 2016’s election results, we sat in the hospital room, trying to comprehend the news that you wouldn’t survive. Two weeks after that, we lost you. Remembering, which my heart did constantly this last month or so, is like muscle memory. My heart just hurt.

 

Most days are peaceful now. Sometimes, like last month, a wave hits, and we just have to feel it. Sometimes I see a child who was born the same Spring you were due, and my heart freezes for a moment, knowing what could have been. Often, if my thoughts are too ‘swirly,’ (as I call them), your photos slow me down. They are concretely and tangibly you.  Reminding me of your hands. Your feet, shaped just like your Dad’s. Your mouth, shaped just like Addie’s when she sleeps. Your skin, dark and fragile. Your nose and ears, impossibly small. The ink of your handprints and footprints.

 

The night you were born was everything felt at once. I was crying. I was relieved – you had gone in the most peaceful way possible. I was physically exhausted. I was worried for our family’s hearts. I was sick, my body quite possibly unable to handle the shock. I was thankful for our village. I was angry we didn’t get to meet you when you were alive. I was grateful I got to hold you at all.

 

There were many who loved you that day and night. Our family. Your grandparents came in to rock you. Your sisters gave love from afar. Erin. Nurses. Friends who came before, who visited us after. I remember your Dad the most – this tall, solid man holding his tiny, tiny son, so gently and tenderly.

 

We all think of you now. Because you have given us so much. Friendships. Healing. A deeper appreciation of each other. A wider village. Moments of kindness. Doors to understanding. John. Bryce. And the memory of you. There are bricks by the river, flowers growing in the afternoon sun, trees that bloom, prayers said over candles, jars and cards and pieces of jewelry of people who have been touched by you, Abram. I have your footprints framed with the words tiny but mighty, because your spirit is everywhere, and it is strong. You are nestled in the hearts of so many, giving warmth and hope and the knowledge of love.

 

I have many times listed off the gifts you’ve given this world and I’ll do it a hundred or more times in my lifetime because you are worth celebrating. I will always grieve for you, but I will always treasure your story and your life.

 

I remember in the weeks after we found out, when you were still kicking and turning in my belly, Erin was checking your heart beat at an appointment – ba bum ba bum ba bum. She said it was the strongest part of you. I have a recording of it saved, but I hear it all the time anyway, baby boy. Yesterday, I stood outside by myself for a minute, looking at our Christmas wreaths, the sounds of the kids playing inside the door, knowing the smell of Evergreen that will forever hold you in it, and suddenly, a light wind blew by, as if answering my deep breath. I am certain you were there. Your heartbeat is in the wind, in the trees, in the waves, in your sisters and your little brother who calls you “Abie,” in the stars blinking in the night, and it is forever in the beat of my own heart.

 

I am so thankful for that, and for you, Abram.

 

I love you, always.

 

Mom