My daughter’s hair is growing and it makes me miss my son. Her hair feels like his, so soft and course at the same time.

We have a tiny snip of his hair. I don’t think they took one of hers. There is so little to compare. Dead newborn baby with live sister growing. If we did her hand prints and foot prints now they would be bigger. And she wouldn’t cooperate anyhow I imagine.

How many times can I realize that he will never grow.

His ashes remain on a shelf where I can see them when I sleep. -his picture, where I can see it when I get dressed in the morning.

When I look into my daughter’s eyes I see and wonder what his would be. Would they be blue-grey like hers, like mine? Maybe they would be brown or green or hazel. Why do we wonder what color our dead babies eyes would be…? I wonder what he would be saying. I wonder whether he would be hitting his sister, or petting her, or playing with her, or trying to teach her something he has learned.

All children are so different. They all have different personalities, they are different people. Who was he? Who was my son? Who would he have become by now…? Who would he be? Who would we be together? How would we be speaking? What silly things would he say and do? How would he amaze me? How would he make me fall in love? Would daddy be happy? Would daddy play with him and take him places?

I love my son – even though he is dead. How can that be? It just is.

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