Letter No. 3

It is easier to let you go, knowing—genetically speaking—you were never meant to be viable longterm. 

It is much harder to let go of the future we planned with you.

How we remodeled the entire upstairs to make way for your arrival. All the maternity clothes I bought. The new crib. The new carseat. The party your Tía Susana and I were planning. It is harder to let these things go.

We move your big brother to our old room. We move all the things meant for you to his old room. We close the door. The hallway is much darker now, without that light.

I do not eat. Knowing full well that if I do, if I do, there will be milk. Milk, but no baby. 

So far, my strategy is working.

I do not sleep. I listen to rain falling on the pavement. I pet the cats who have not left me alone since that first night without you. I try not to think of the sad little splash of my water breaking. Like spilling a very tiny cup of water down my legs. I try not to think of you, in that way, swaddled in the smell of our blood. I try not to think of you as two pink lines on a pregnancy test either, how elated we were to read those results after months and months of hoping, waiting, trying.

I am afraid to try again.

I am afraid of the blood between my legs. 

I am afraid of my own body.

At three in the morning, I rise. I gather your framed ultrasound picture, which is captioned in curling blue paint, A miracle waiting to be seen. We will have to wait longer than 40 weeks now. I tell myself that is okay.

I gather the angel we ordered, the one every woman I know who has lost a son owns, somewhere in her home. 

I gather the beautiful copy of Peter Pan, bound in blue with a silver silk ribbon. “To die will be an awfully big adventure.” I have to believe that is true. 

I gather the small box we chose for your ashes, though it is still waiting to be filled.

All of these things, I arrange carefully in a glass-cased bookshelf. We could not give you a nursery, but we can give you this. The ofrenda.

Yesterday was a good day. We bought marigolds for the flower beds. We made plans for tattoos. The sun was shining, and the wind was blowing flower petals in the air.

Today is harder. 

Your brother lifts my shirt, like he always has, and kisses my flaccid, deflated stomach. He cries. And he cries. And he cries. Until we manage to caress him to sleep. He knows you are gone but does not yet understand. You must forgive him, Gabriel, he is only 363 days old. You must forgive us all.