Last night lying in bed while I wrestled with our little rainbow babe to go to sleep, I asked Matt what he remembered about our boys’ birth.
This response was followed by a little bit of silence while I pondered how differently we grieved. It was so hard for him to talk about their birth, and it wasn’t something he wanted to remember; while I love the opportunity to talk about it and I hate that I’m slowly forgetting.
“I wish they were here,” I said.
“They’d be asleep,” Matt pointed at Charlie, in reference to the fact that it was 2 hours past her bedtime and she was still full of beans. I laughed a little.
“I don’t think they would be; they’d be playing games with each other through the cot bars ’til all hours probably.”
Again more silence, but this time a nicer one – for just a moment I sat there imagining our boys alive, their happy voices floating down to us from their room at the end of the hall. I pictured them standing up, reaching for each other where their cots met. I lived in this moment until Charlie (lovingly) kicked me in the face back to reality.
It was nice for just a moment to glimpse our lives as they would have been.