I’ve been missing you a lot this week. Part of it is the miscarriage. I don’t really feel right saying “your brother or sister” about it anymore, because really, I don’t feel like I lost another baby. There wasn’t a person there. Not like with you. You had so much personality even in that short time we were together. You liked riding in the car–you’d always bounce around, especially if I sang along with the radio. You hated being poked and prodded. You’d always kick indignantly when somebody poked at you. It was a good thing, too–because Daddy and Grandma P got to feel you kick from the outside before you were gone. You would get very quiet if I played music just for you–as soon as the headphones hit my belly, you would stop whatever you were doing.

I wish you were here now. Most of my friends have (or, if all goes well, are about to have) beautiful, healthy babies. And here I sit, smoking in the house and watching a movie. Your room is full of things we don’t have a place for. All the little clothes we bought for you are packed away in a box, along with all my maternity clothes.

I just want you here now. I want to know the boy you should have been. I want to show you off at holiday parties. I want to see you smile, to hear you’re gurgly little laugh. I want to kiss your belly and dance you around the room. I want to curl in my safe little corner of the couch with you tucked safely in my arms.

I want you in my life. Not in my memory.

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