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Two Years Out

The season is changing again. We’ve already had several of the gorgeous spring days that we had on the day of your birth. You have a little sister now, she’s six months old and one of the funniest people I’ve yet to meet.

She looks just like your dad but when she’s asleep she looks just like you. I see it when I rock her to sleep. Saw it when I fed her in the wee hours of those first nights, swaying in the rocking chair your great-grandma bought us when we were pregnant with you. I look to the corner of your room where your picture sits and I cry for all the things lost. All the things you and I will never do together. All the firsts we will have with your sister. I wonder what the dynamic would have been like if I had been blessed enough to have you both here.

I cry about comments “oh, I bet your Dad wishes for a grandson since he has all girls!” and think, well… he does have a grandson. He would say the same thing, he and I being so alike.

It’s still not fair. It still hurts tremendously, but the sharp sting is gone and it’s more of a dull ache. I can’t believe how time has passed, how much has happened since you were born and died. Recently, I was hit with the true realization that I will carry this pain forever. Every spring, as the season changes and the birdsong returns and the daffodils make their appearance I will think of you and it will hurt.

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