It's a strange feeling each year, as if at midnight, I have to say goodbye again.
Today.. we remembered you. We celebrated you. And, as always, we missed you.
Today.. we delivered so many books, kindly donated by family, friends, and strangers, to the place where you were born. The only place you ever knew.
Though we didn't get to take your brothers to the room this year, because of flu restrictions, your father and I got to go up alone. They specifically saved the exact room where you born, so we could have a moment there.
It is hallowed ground to me.
Crossing that threshold takes my breath away every time. It is the air you so powerfully and unexpectedly breathed.
I want to crumble to my knees at the weight of it. But I feel like you're keeping me standing. Like you're holding me together. It is the same way you gave me strength when I had to say goodbye to you.
But make no mistake.. I cried for you today. Without your brothers in the room to distract my attention, the memories came like snapshots. Like a Polaroid spitting out images that would start blurry and then come into focus.
My chin would quiver and I couldn't stop it.
But I didn't crumble.
I took all those Polaroids and added them to album I visit every so often -- tucked safely away in my heart.
They won't get lost there.
So, happy birthday.
Goodnight.
And goodbye for now.
Thank you, as always, for making me a mother, first.. and a better person, second.
You changed me.
You changed the world.
And a thank you to the staff at IU Methodist that allowed us to come and make our donation, even on a Saturday and in the midst of a flu restriction. We are grateful they allow us to celebrate our babies every year.
And lastly, thank you to the donors. It wouldn't be possible to touch so many families, in the legacy of our children, without your help each and every year. <3
