Dear Harper bean,
The fifth of the month is always hard. I wonder if it always will be? Even random, not terribly symbolic anniversaries like the seventeenth mensiversary of the day you died somehow carry extra weight.
In the weeks following your death, I frantically organized and packed baby clothes. I have a distinct memory of weeping over one tiny outfit. I bought it after we found out about your heart defect, before we knew about everything else that had gone wrong. I bought it makr myself feel excited about the broken hearted little baby on the way.
I packed it away, unworn, soaked in tears of what never was.
I forgot about it.
In packed it in the wrong box, little bean. There it was, among the six month clothes I was sorting through for your brother. Still unworn, still adorable.
Soren will never wear it. And I wept over it again. For what never was. For what never will be.
And I flashed back to a time when being around tiny babies and tiny clothes made me so, so, so very sad.
Thinking of you tonight, Harper bean. Thinking of you.