It seems impossible to miss something you've never had, or yearn for someone you've never known, but the impossible nature of it won't stop us from doing so.
Today is the day we anticipated welcoming you into the world. Chances are, you'd have been here already. We have encountered countless small faces from then until now, reminding us of what is missing. Some rest in arms of friends, painfully close, others sleep in strangers' car seats straddling the sides of shopping carts as we pick through the aisles searching for the cereal and milk. Searching for the basics. Starting back at zero.
We miss you, baby. My triangle of abdominal scars has faded from red to brown, and within a year or two they will be thin lines of silver, streaks of an operation that took more than a tube, and left more marks than those. I wanted to give you more than six weeks of life; I wanted to give you the world. I dreamed of holding you, loving you, showing you the beautiful world God has created just for us. But some dreams die. They change in an instant of bad news, lost until some new light is found. Our light will always be the bright Light of the world, our Savior Jesus Christ who knows our pain.
And pain it will be. There is an ache within me that will not be numbed; even when my arms are full of children who are so so loved by their momma and poppa, we will be missing you. It is a simple fact of our lives now. I let myself wonder what it would be like if things had happened another way, how different our days and nights and years would be with you here, part of our Earthside family. But the dream has changed. And for now, we wait. Wait to meet you, to see you, to hold you and never let go. But we will not wait to love you. That, we can do from here.
You, my darling, will always be my baby. And I will always be your momma.