Just like I held your three sisters on the day of their births, I held you on my chest for hours on the day you were born. Whilst we heard the healthy screams of babies in the other rooms around us, our room was quiet as could be. A blanket of sadness and peace covered our suite. It drowned out the sounds of the happy families around us. It was just your Dad, you and I.
When your sisters were born I took hundreds of photos of them. They were miraculous little beings and I could not believe that they had been given to me to raise and look after. When you were born I never picked up my camera that day. It wasn’t because you were not as miraculous as your sisters – you were a beautiful miracle and for whatever reason we were only allowed to have you for a day. How could I put you down to go and get my camera? We had moments, not years. I couldn’t put you down, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.
I have little evidence of you. A few surgical images that the kind midwives tried to make more gentle by having you hold a flower when they photographed you. I was blessed enough to live in a state that recognized your life and because of that recognition I was given a birth certifcate with your beautiful name on it.
You were not a lost pregnancy or a stillborn as some have described you. You were not a sad thing that happened to us or a tragic circumstance. You were a baby, my baby, our baby. A human being. I glowed the day you were born. I call it The Mother Glow. It happens to every mother regardless of whether her baby breathes or not and that memory of my reflection in the mirror that day is enough evidence for me that you existed.
You are my son and although I cannot care for you physically, I carry you always. You are everywhere I go. Especially when I hold your sisters. Your DNA is a part of mine now and that bonds us together forever.