Packing and crying

Today, I packed your clothes away. I haven't given them away, or sold them... just put them in a box. And it was hard.

There were clothes there that you were given before you were even born that you'd never ever worn. And clothes that you'd worn so much that looking at them was like looking at you.

16 months and 2 days of living.. the proof of your life, packed into two boxes, not even a 1m2.

I wonder sometimes why this happened. I rationalise all the good in it...and some amazing good has come of your short life, I know this. But there is a part of me that will always question our loss.
I guess, when it comes down to it, I just can't believe sometimes that the one thing I had hoped, dreamed of and prayed for, was that thing that I  lost. Not that any other loss would be better... but yet somehow this one feels worse.

Can you ask Jesus why, my baby? Would you do that for your mother? Would you ask Him why? Because no-one can heal this hole in my heart other than Him.

Let it be said that we're ok. We're fine, actually. But sometimes, when I sit down and think long and hard about you. When I try remember your smell, or the sound of your voice... when my whole being aches to hold you, love you and kiss you... in those moments, I wonder how it is that we're just carrying on?

I know, by the grace of God, He has brought us through, and will continue to hold us, and take us through. But this is the strange thing about death: life carries on. It should. And it does. But sometimes... sometimes I just want everything to stop. Just for a moment. For the whole world to stop spinning. To pause. And remember.

Because, I am so scared to forget. I know I will never forget you. But I am scared I will forget the small details of you... the things that made you who you were. The shape of your head in my hand. The feel of your hair against my face. The texture of your skin. The coolness of your feet. 16 months 2 days. Miks, it was gone so quickly... how am I going to hold onto those little things that you did for 491 days, for the rest of my life?

Your clothes are not you. The pictures on the wall do not replace you. All just resemblances, or symbols of who you were for your short time on earth. 491 days for a T18 baby... well, miraculous, really... and LONG. And yet... so very, very short.