“How many children do you have?”
“We have five.” We have six. “Four girls and a boy.” Four girls and two boys.
At least, I think he was a boy. Even though I carried him in my hands to the hospital and gave him to the nurse, I don’t know for sure. I don’t know what we lost. I don’t know who we lost. But my momma heart tells me that it was a boy.
When he died, there were no forms to fill out. No one asked what we had planned to call him. There wasn’t a funeral. No death certificate. No “I’m sorry for your loss.” No condolence cards. There was nothing. There was silence.
And tears.
And guilt.
I think of him often. I wonder what he would’ve become. When my other kids smile or tease me or make me laugh, I wonder how he would’ve fit in. Would he have been the quiet one? The industrious one? The troublemaker? The peacemaker? The protective older brother.
Did he know for the few precious moments that he was in my hands how much he was loved? Even though he was already gone.
