You

I would be holding you by now, little one. Most assuredly.

Our time together would not be limited to those few moments six months ago when you lay in the palm of my hand, curled on your side. I would not know only cries of anguish, as life-blood spilled and breasts grew heavy.

The cries of anguish would have turned to cries of joy as you were laid in my arms for the first time. Breasts would grow heavy and fill with milk to nourish and strengthen, not dry up painfully.

I would not remember brokenness.

No, I would look down and see you whole.

I can almost feel your weight in the crook of my arm. I can almost see the tawny fuzz on your tiny head, feel your fingers curled around my own. I inhale, and almost smell that new baby scent; it is heady, deliriously so. I feel weak as I close my eyes and smile.

I cannot see you whole, but I know you are. And your spirit is evident everywhere I look.

Eliana twinkles at me as she points to her pink dress, exclaiming "Blue!" just to make me grab and tickle. I see you.

Micah's breath touches my ear as he speaks his evening prayer. I feel you.

Corban leans to help the stroller down onto the street from the curb, his little boy sweatiness wafting my way. I inhale you.

Daddy lifts heavy boxes so I don't have to, sending winks and smiles my way. A thousand different ways, he says it every day. I love you.

Smiles, struggles, laughter, loss, winks and woes. You are part of us.

We miss you, and so we cling closer together; to feel your breath, see your twinkle, inhale your fragrance.

And the new gift that grows inside Mama, this miracle? Well. This child will also, most assuredly, remind us of *you*.

Love you.

Love,