And neither does a maybe mama.
Pretty sure I’ve mentioned how difficult it is to feel like nearly everyone else has forgotten that my baby ever existed. And sometimes, in the past week or so when I’ve been near-consumed with thoughts of other things that NEEDED TO GET DONE, I’ve been worried about forgetting. Well, not forgetting, never forgetting, but not being as uber cognizant of the loss as I had been initially. Which really aggravated me because, well, what was I going to do about it?
I know others have put up markers, or had some kind of small service, or done something in memoriam; and though I understand now how those things could be a comfort, none of them really jive with me. But I had this need to do something. This had been our baby. But we would never hold it, never stay up with it into all hours of the night, never go on trips, or hang up school pictures. We would never really have any mementos of a life.
We had the sonogram from eight weeks, when our baby was healthy. We had the baby shoes we’d gotten to use in the announcement photo. We had the onesie my friend gave to us when I told her I was pregnant. We had a dozen or so sympathy cards. A few trinkets. The “Letters to My Grandchild” book my mother had written in. It wasn’t much, but it was something I wanted to do something with.
For most of my life (in addition to collecting words), I’ve put together memory boxes for the years I’ve had. Little token of things or experiences I wanted to remember, letters, cards, some photos. I decided I wanted to make a memory box for Charlie. Because our brief memories of the time we had the baby are all we’re ever going to get. So, I ordered one of those photo boxes off good old Amazon, and it came today. Right now it’s up in what would have been the nursery, waiting to be filled (which will likely happen later this evening). I’m not sure where I’ll put it then, but it doesn’t really matter so much because no matter where it sits, it will be a tangible reminder that for a little while, Charlie existed.