Dear Precious Baby from Long Ago,
There are moments when I feel your presence, though not in a mystical sense. I don’t catch a whiff of lavender or sense a gentle breeze that brings you to mind. That’s only happened a couple of times—perhaps when I saw a rainbow or a butterfly in unexpected places, and I’m not sure if it was truly you or just my wishful thinking. I often ponder whether those we’ve lost linger in our lives or if they let us go so we can find peace.
What I feel is not you, but the absence of you. The constant, gentle (and sometimes harsh) reminder that you are not here. You never will be, in this space, with me, with us, your family. My days unfold as they did before your brief time here, though now I have two lively little ones to care for. That makes me more tired, busy, cranky, and joyful all at once. I no longer light your candle every night or weep for you each day. Still, your absence surrounds me, drifting silently and invisibly, sometimes buzzing like a mosquito, other times fluttering through my thoughts like a hummingbird, and occasionally shaking me to my core when things go awry.
Most days, I feel a sense of freedom, yet I am never entirely free from thoughts of you. That’s alright because your memory has become a source of sweet nostalgia. You remain a baby in my heart, forever small and precious, like a tadpole.
Losing a baby who was barely here is a unique and profound sadness. People quickly feel justified in forgetting, and they expect me to do the same. Over time, I find myself forgetting—never entirely, but there are moments, hours, even days when I don’t dwell on my loss or ponder what might have been, which leaves me feeling guilty. I grasp at moments to prove I haven’t moved on, that I haven’t betrayed you, as if my worth as a mother depends on it.
Yet, no matter how often I think of you, I can never fully move on. A part of me, the version of me before your loss, remains with you in the past. While others around me may forget what you meant to us, you are always in my thoughts during significant moments—the anniversaries of your conception, your absence, and your due date.
Your memory often surfaces when I watch your sisters. They bring me immense joy, and I’ve witnessed their personalities grow and blossom. I held them when they were fresh and new, and with both awe and heartache, I’ve watched them transform into beautiful, independent individuals.
And now there’s another baby on the way—God willing, I’ll experience that joy again. But for you, I miss out on all of that. I didn’t just lose a baby; I lost years of feeling your soft weight in my arms, watching your eyes light up as you discover the world, and seeing you change and stay the same as the years go by. You never had the chance to grow, which saddens me for both of us, as I lost so much more than just a tiny embryo.
I often think of you as the Little One Who Almost Was, but even in that name, there’s no truth. There’s nothing “almost” about your place in my heart. You were here. You existed. In my memories and the empty space you left behind, you remain. You were, and you are. In some ways, even if it’s only in the void you created, you still live within us.
So, you are not forgotten. I may not always remember, but I can’t let go. I won’t, and I don’t want to. There’s not much I can offer you from where I stand, with you in a different realm and me here, alive and solid. But I promise you this: I love you still and will never try to forget you. You are, and forever will be, mine.
With all my love,
Your Mama