No-No: 1 yr, 8 mos
Ah, my son. My son.
There is a certain little boy who frequently visits the store where I work, with his mother and grandmother. He is roughly the same age as Noah would be, had he lived. He is also the same color: coffee with cream. Delicious. Gorgeous. Just what I always wanted. A year ago, looking at him made my chest cave in. (One day I literally had to hide, crouching behind my cash register, choking on dry sobs.)
He's toddling now. I saw him last week, holding on to his mama's finger and grinning like crazy over his latest accomplishment. I wanted to scoop him up and kiss him all over his sweet face. I wanted him to be mine. But he's not. He's not my Noah.
No one else could ever be my Noah. My special boy.
I would give anything to have my baby back. To look into his eyes, and see the whole of my universe suspended there. To hear his stories, told in his own unique voice. To feel the solid weight of him in my arms. To watch him grow. It is a fool's dream. I know that nothing I could ever give would suffice. I understand that I am helpless and -- unexpectedly, mysteriously -- my helplessness doesn't make me angry anymore. Every day, I forgive myself a little more for being unable to save him. The self-hatred that had hardened like a lump of obsidian in my ribcage is slowly chipping away.
I don't know about tomorrow, or the day after that, but this is where I am right now. Right now I can say, with a delicate confidence: It is so. It is sad. It is beautiful. It is terrible. It is long. It is the most painful thing that I have ever had to deal with -- and I have dealt with a lot. I am a champion. I am a mother. I am afraid. I hurt. I lose. I win.
It is simple. It is hard. It is so... it is so... it is so.
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