Its been two months, today...
My most vivid memory of you isthe wake.
Your eyes closed, wrapped in your alphabet blanket. And that little, blue cap. I keep seeing the little, blue cap. Maybe, its because when we went through your things, I was given one like it. Just a blue baby hat. It may even be the one you wore the day you were born. Or was that one striped? I believe the one you were buried in had puppies on it.
I know it came with an outfit that had puppies on it. I was with Mom, when she bought it. The funeral director told us, specifically, you would need a hat for the wake. Thats because they cut your head open at the autopsy. Mom was distressed, knowing what they had done to you and that it would be all the harder to find you the perfect suit because you needed a stupid hat. A stupid hat, because your head was all sliced up. You know how hard it is to shop for clothes to bury a loved one in? Nothing is ever good enough. You want it to be just right, but nothing lives up. The colors are wrong. The designs are stupid. And finding one with a hat, well, most of the outfits that came with hats were pajamas. We did good, though. You had a little, blue suit, with puppies. And your little, blue hat.
Remember the last time we saw eachother? It was three days before you died. It was hot, that day, and you were in your diaper. Remember, when I was feeding you, how you dribbled formula all over me? And I made fun of your chubby thighs? You thought it was funny. And then, when we sat on the couch, how I pointed the fan on us and wiped your head and tummy with the baby wipe, to keep you cool and you laughed at how the breeze felt on your damp skin?
When I held you, at the wake, you were so cold. I wrapped your alphabet blanket around you and held you as tight as I could. I thought I could warm you up. If I held you long enough
That day we saw eachother last, I only wanted to cool you down.
I didnt want you to get so, so cold.
You were so cold.
My most vivid memory of you isthe wake.
Your eyes closed, wrapped in your alphabet blanket. And that little, blue cap. I keep seeing the little, blue cap. Maybe, its because when we went through your things, I was given one like it. Just a blue baby hat. It may even be the one you wore the day you were born. Or was that one striped? I believe the one you were buried in had puppies on it.
I know it came with an outfit that had puppies on it. I was with Mom, when she bought it. The funeral director told us, specifically, you would need a hat for the wake. Thats because they cut your head open at the autopsy. Mom was distressed, knowing what they had done to you and that it would be all the harder to find you the perfect suit because you needed a stupid hat. A stupid hat, because your head was all sliced up. You know how hard it is to shop for clothes to bury a loved one in? Nothing is ever good enough. You want it to be just right, but nothing lives up. The colors are wrong. The designs are stupid. And finding one with a hat, well, most of the outfits that came with hats were pajamas. We did good, though. You had a little, blue suit, with puppies. And your little, blue hat.
Remember the last time we saw eachother? It was three days before you died. It was hot, that day, and you were in your diaper. Remember, when I was feeding you, how you dribbled formula all over me? And I made fun of your chubby thighs? You thought it was funny. And then, when we sat on the couch, how I pointed the fan on us and wiped your head and tummy with the baby wipe, to keep you cool and you laughed at how the breeze felt on your damp skin?
When I held you, at the wake, you were so cold. I wrapped your alphabet blanket around you and held you as tight as I could. I thought I could warm you up. If I held you long enough
That day we saw eachother last, I only wanted to cool you down.
I didnt want you to get so, so cold.
You were so cold.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
scarletletterman:
I'm sorry for your loss. Take care! 
knives2meatyou:
Beautifully written, and heartbreaking. I lost my son earlier this year, so I understand the pain and the emptiness. I don't think it ever gets better, but I suppose the goal is to live with a scar rather than an open wound. You and your family have my love and sympathy.