I did not forget about you on March 4th. In fact, I composed a version of this letter in my head. On March 2nd, there was a big storm, and the wind knocked out the power. The city managed to get our power restored the following day, but we only got internet back late this afternoon. So posting your letter was delayed. The storm served as a visible reminder of the precariousness of life, how in just a few moments everything can change.
Of course, I have been very aware of this since your death. On the night of March 3rd, I lay awake listening to the wind rattling against the window. I looked over at the time, and thought about how 22 months earlier I was in labor with you. I almost dry heaved as I thought how I will never know whether you were alive or dead in that moment, and at what moment your heart stopped. It feels surreal sometimes. I don’t understand how you are dead.
Eli’s been talking about you more again. Tonight, he said that there are five people in our family, and then he listed them-himself, you, Silas, me and papa. He said he loves us the most in the world. He included you. I like when you are included. He also wanted to bring the elephant stuffed animals to the cemetery to take a picture with your grave. It was a nice thought. But it makes me too sad right now. Maybe I will feel differently at a different time.
On the fourth, I went to the cemetery. I left two new stones at your grave. They are stones Eli and I picked from the back yard of a house that we were looking at. We have been trying to find a house to buy before Eli starts kindergarten. It is stressful, and there is very little inventory in the areas that we are looking. Moving means we will meet new people. They are bound to have little children who were born around the same time you were. Another visible reminder that you are not here, and not the joyful little 22 month old I imagine you to be. We have been looking for housing in two different counties. On paper, one area is a clear winner. But it is a different county from where we are now. It would feel like starting over, and leaving the friends and community that have been holding us up since you died. And I don’t think any of us are ready to do that.
My dearest littlest Sidney. I love you so much. I miss you. And I love you. Always. I will always love you.
Always and forever,