Cempasúchil

They tell me to rest. I run. Until blood clots soak between my legs. They tell me to schedule a follow-up appointment. What else is there left to say? I have lost my baby. My son is gone. Has been gone. Gone.

I know these things happen. How many times have I been asked to describe the complications of meiosis? How many family trees have I been given, asked to trace the genetic disease back to the carrier?

We light a candle above our bed at night. So he can find his way back to us. So in the black of night, between nightmares that are really just re-tellings of the past two days, there is light.

“You know,” my husband says while we are driving home, “we are trauma bonded now. It was the last bond we needed.”

“Yeah, it’s like having all the infinity stones,” I reply, staring straight into the setting sun, “except nothing happens when we snap our fingers.”

We buy two boxes. One for his footprints, his handprints, his blood-stained swaddle, his photograph. One for his ashes. I forgot to ask how long until the funeral home would have those for us to take home.

My sons were born six days apart. My sons were born six days apart. Six days apart.

I do not touch my blood clots anymore. Last time I wiped one away, my son fell out with it. Placenta and all. I will never unfeel his little body sliding out of me. I will never unhear the animal sounds of my grief, wailing out of me. The smell of blood. He barely filled the palm of my husband’s hand.

But through it all, there is a comforting thought: some babies are born on earth; others are born in heaven. In this idea, there is no death. My son did not die. He was born in heaven. I don’t believe in the christian heaven of my childhood. But I believe in something.

So, Gabriel, look for the people who knew your mamá y papá on earth. Look for Ruth. For Jeff. For Armando. And look for your tíos and your primos. All your alebrijes. In time, we will meet.