He was born at 18 weeks, on a cool spring night.
I didn't want to hold only the grief, so I asked if others could please wish him a miracle. I wished for him the glorious sunrise he'd never see, that filled the sky beyond the hospital window with gold. There were heartfelt replies, from coast to coast, and beyond. Little miracles, like shimmering balloons rising up high. One who had been there for us during the darker times spoke of the great joy of those posts, that gloried in the everyday miracles all around, and of the kinships forged during the funeral.
Somehow, though, while she and others grabbed the strings and rose up and have tea together and play dates with their kids, I got left behind. I got ostracized, one of them made a very nasty decision that's hindered my family rather harshly for the past few years - and they get tea.
I wonder if I'm being punished for having tried so hard to remember him with as much love and joy and delight as I could find?