One year ago today, we lost you.
I remember the hospital, the nurses – thieves of slumber throughout the night – checking that bloody beeping blue machine, checking my IV drip, inserting the misoprotol. Waiting for my child to drop and be taken away.
Contractions. Broken water. Panic of a new mom. Birth canal. Pushing. A silent baby.
We held you, our beautiful, perfect Henry. We were afraid to handle you too much. You were so, so broken. Born with limbs jutting the wrong way. So frail. You were gone, but we dared not hurt you more, our precious son. A new mom who left the hospital without her child. A father without his second son.
Now, memories. Memorabilia. A few photos. Your footprints, and the hat they put on your head that still has some of your blood. Ashes in an urn I made you.
You are long gone, but you will never, ever, ever be forgotten. Where are you now?
I love you, Henry. My first love, my first child. And I miss you every day.
Once year equals 365 excruciating days without you. Happy birthday, my sweet Henry.