Night number two without him. For only the second time since his birth, I did not get to kiss my baby goodnight and lay him down. I did not get to sing him the teddy song he so loved. I did not get to tip toe out of his room or silently close his door. I will not hear him hum himself to sleep or chatter at the wall. I will not sleep soundly in the next room. I will not wake in the morning to his smile. His arms will not reach for me, he will not softly touch my face and press his forehead to mine.
I want to remember what his skin felt like, the smell of his hair, how it felt to place his hand in mine. I want to remember how his eyes looked for me every moment, no matter where we were. How he would watch me intently any time I spoke. I want to wash his hair and snuggle him after bath time. I want to see him pull the spoon to his mouth because I’m not feeding him fast enough for his liking. I want to see his silly hand movements, the way he would outstretch his arm above his head and practice grasping imaginary things while he studied his own fingers.
These previously tangible moments are only memories now. Routine is gone. Death took these moments from us. Replaced by horrid images of how I discovered him, what happened to him. Seven months feels like two minutes in comparison to a lifetime without him.