The first time I ever see human ashes, they belong to my only born child. The first time I
see my son's ashes are only the third time I have ever seen him. I saw him soon after he was born. I saw him again the next day. One week later, he is brought home in a small
plastic baggie, closed with a zip tie. A small amount of the ashes are placed
into a separate bag to be made into a bead keepsake that I will continue to wear every
day. Probably for the rest of my life. The smaller bag had his name
written on it. I have held that bag so many times the printing has rubbed off.
These ashes are my baby.
I stare at his ashes and wonder which parts are his bones,
which parts are his flesh, and which parts are the heart I used to love to listen to. I wonder which ashes make up his eyes, and
what color his eyes were. I never got to
see them.
How did it come to this? He was so strong and so alive until suddenly he was not anymore. What happened that he wasn’t able to continue to live even
one more minute?
When I met him for the first time he was so beautiful, so perfect, so handsome. He looked like a solid, hearty, healthy baby. But he was sleeping so silently and peacefully. Angelically. It was surreal, yet so real, holding him and trying to come to understand that my son's death would be his life.
He fit perfectly in my arms. What happened so that when I hold him now, I am wondering which of these ashes are his tiny, wrinkled fingers? Which ashes are his surprisingly big feet? Which ones are his crooked second toe that looked just like his dad’s?
When I met him for the first time he was so beautiful, so perfect, so handsome. He looked like a solid, hearty, healthy baby. But he was sleeping so silently and peacefully. Angelically. It was surreal, yet so real, holding him and trying to come to understand that my son's death would be his life.
He fit perfectly in my arms. What happened so that when I hold him now, I am wondering which of these ashes are his tiny, wrinkled fingers? Which ashes are his surprisingly big feet? Which ones are his crooked second toe that looked just like his dad’s?
I spend my days searching for signs of his spirit, for signs- of anything. But on the few days when I can stand to stare truth in the eyes, I see my son has died. What is left of him is
what I am holding right now in this bag.
These ashes are my baby.
These ashes are my son.
Oh, Dear Angela, thank you for having the courage and grace to share this. We feel your pain but it is remarkably free of bitterness or anger. Thank you so much for that. I continue to pray for you and Sean nearly every day. You will never completely get over this, of course, but time will eventually make it more bearable.
ReplyDeleteI fee so much for you and your sweet baby Henry. So heartbroken for you as I read this. I can't ever imagine the hurt you feel. I know some days are easier than others as I read and follow your posts. The beauty you see in all around you, the peace you feel knowing he is with you always making this world beautiful. I feel peace with you in those days and on days like today when you are trying to understand why this happened and you see him in your mind as he was when he was born, those are the days my heart breaks for you. I'm so sorry Angela. So so sorry. I can only imagine that nothing is worse than this feeling of loosing your baby. There are no words to console.
ReplyDeleteAngela,
ReplyDeleteI will always remember the first time I met you. I will remember the laughing club and your contagious smile. I have been following Henry's story, and yours, and I am in awe. I want to say there are no words, and of course there aren't, but the fact that you are processing your grief and simultaneously celebrating Henry's life leaves me astounded and wanting to drop to my knees and weep. Please don't stop writing and sharing with us--your words as a mother are too important. Sending much love.