Shadows

Every evening, I stand in front of their urns casting off shadows from the candles that burn before them.. bending down to look at their picture; truly look. Taking in every angle of their faces -- from their tiny mouths to their perfect little noses. I glance down at their fists, remembering how it felt to gently brush my finger across theirs.

Soon enough, it all floods in. How it felt to hold them and how it felt to birth them. The loss crashes down around me all over again... And I cry.

I cry as I apologize to them, "You deserved more. You deserved a chance. I'm so sorry I let you down.."

I don't talk to them with the belief that they can hear me. I say the words because I need to let them come out. I need to say aloud the things that nobody else could understand.

"If there is a place after this.. if I'm wrong.. know that I'm coming for you. I'll find you."

And it always ends the same way, "I love you.. and I miss you." I feel each name, etched in the cold metal, as I blow out the candles and go off to bed feeling emotionally drained.

My husband and I at the memorial. (cropped photo taken by Erika Aileen Photography)

But we're to the point now where the pain goes unspoken. Friends and coworkers expect us to be 'ourselves' again. So we are. Or we pretend to be. We laugh at their jokes. We nod as they talk about signing up their kids for T-ball. We never let on how badly it still hurts. We never let on that we still cry. We talk in the past tense, never letting on that it is still very much our present.

We even try to fool ourselves. We've returned to our routine -- from work to date nights. Anything to feel "normal" again. But no matter how "normal" the day, the routine, or the façade.. I still have that same moment every evening that is completely devoted to my children.

Some people have family dinner, or bedtime stories. I'm left saying goodnight to their ashes -- tears falling in the stillness and shadows.

(If you would like to help us have our second chance, please visit gofundme.com/shilorfund)

Bringing Our Babies Home

We finally got the call yesterday -- that our babies were ready to come home.

As I anxiously waited for Brad to get off work so we could go together, I wasn't sure how I was feeling. Was I relieved? Was I going to fall apart as soon as I saw the urns? Maybe both?

I got into Brad's car and immediately noticed there was some terrible rock music on from the 90s. I don't know exactly what you're supposed to have playing for such an event.. but that certainly wasn't it. So I quickly searched the channels for something that felt right.

We pulled into the parking lot and then lingered in the car for a few seconds longer than we needed to. "You ready for this?" I took a deep breath as we got out.

As we made our way towards the office I was becoming more nervous and anxious.. not knowing how I was about to feel.

A couple of women greeted us and then went in search of the gentleman who had called us. We took a seat while we waited. He then suddenly emerged from the staircase; both urns in hand. I instantly felt like I had been punched in the gut, but at the same time, I wanted to run towards him and take them from his hands.

As he made his way over, he asked if we wanted a box to carry them in. "No. No way. I'll carry them." was all my brain was thinking.

He carefully placed one into each of my hands, and as I sat there, I gradually lowered them to balance one on each leg. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.

So many things struck me all at once. The first being, this was the only way I would ever hold my babies again. The urns were roughly the height of my son and daughter.. and I was somehow comforted by that. As if it would always remind me what it felt like to hold them on the day they were born.

But as I noticed myself gently moving my thumbs around the curves of each urn, the way one would gently stroke the cheek of an infant.. my eyes started to become blurry with tears again. Still, I sat there trying to remain composed as Brad finished up all the paperwork and billing.

We exited out into the blistery cold, yet very sunny, day.

And I just stared at them the whole way home. My heart was feeling a little lighter with each passing second.

I had already cleared a spot on the mantle, so we immediately placed them there when we arrived home.

Brad and I hugged, as we both just took in the moment. I asked him if he felt any better or any different. He too felt a little better, adding, "I don't have to wonder where they are now." A couple more minutes passed and I noticed tears in his eyes. So, I asked him what he was thinking or feeling. He took a deep breath and said, "Pride."

And he said it in a tone I'd never heard from him before; just barely carried out from his lungs on the last half of a breath. It was the voice of a grieving father.

He hugged me a little tighter and added, "We made them."

So we cried together and talked for a minute about the day they were born -- and how we did the best we could with the short time we had. I whimpered out, "This just isn't how I wanted to bring them home." I then set up two candles by the urns and let them burn for the rest of the day.

After just looking upon them for awhile, I didn't have the urge to cry again. They were home.

And I know we're reaching the point in the road where others will grow tired of me talking about them or that day. The world is moving on. That's the thing with grief. To everyone else, this was an event that has ended. Life goes on.

But for us, it is life itself. Our wishes. Our plans. Our future. Our son and our daughter. Not a day will go by for the rest of our lives when we don't think of them and all that they taught us.

We didn't know we could feel so much love and so much heartache in such a short amount of time. We didn't know that their names would fit them so perfectly as soon as we saw their little faces and touched their tiny hands. We didn't know the depths at which we could miss someone that we barely got to meet. We didn't know what it was to be a parent.

They taught us that.

Things that used to matter so much, mean nothing anymore. And people we barely knew, mean everything.

So as it turns out, the two best teachers I've ever had, taught me more about life, values, and love than anyone else ever has.. and each of them weighed just around 8 ounces.

Thank you, sweet Jasper and Bodhi, for letting us be your mother and father -- and your students.