one more hour

I held a little baby the other day. A boy, born at 37 weeks, now a week old. He was so tiny. Everything in miniature—eyelids, pointy nose, mouth open in sleep. A little over five pounds, his mother said.

I held this little baby and was so sad, thinking of you. I stared at his face, the only part of him visible in his swaddling. Just like you. I thought of holding you—three weeks younger, 1 ½ pounds lighter. I wished his eyes were your eyes, his nose your nose. I wished I could stroke your cheeks and run my thumb across your lips.

I have been consumed with thoughts of you lately. It is May, after all. The month you were conceived. Three years ago this time, you were just a little seed. An enormous hope. We were so happy.

I say to your mommy tonight, “I’ve been missing Joseph a lot.” And she says, “Me, too. Yesterday was—” Yes, I know. Yesterday was the 27th. 29 months you have been gone. So much time stacked against your short 35 weeks in our lives.

I hold your sister a little closer. Hug her a little tighter. I miss her more when I go to work, and after she goes to sleep at night.

If only I had one more hour with you, I would hold you closer, and hug you tighter. I wouldn’t be so afraid.

 

© Burning Eye

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