Six weeks since my baby died

Today marks six weeks. Six weeks since Killian died. As of tomorrow, he will have been gone longer than he was here. It’s surreal. It’s raw. It opens up some of those deep wounds that had begun to start to heal. I have missed my baby longer than I didn’t. I’ve look at his pictures longer than I looked at his face.

I’m terrified that I’m going to forget his little noises. Or the way he scowled when he was cold. The way his little hands held onto my finger. I know that I will always wonder what colour his eyes would have been, we think they were starting to turn green. If his hair would have stayed so puffy and perfect. Would he have loved cars as much as his brothers. What would his laugh sound like. What would it sound like to hear him say mama.

This process is hard…harder than I can describe. Nights like this seem to knock me back down the steps I’ve been pulling myself up. I miss him. I simply miss him. I miss touching him. And holding him. And running my hands through his hair.

I wish I could make a deal with somebody, anybody, to let me have him with me just for a little bit longer. But I’m afraid that just isn’t the way it goes. This is one thing no one can fix. So tonight I’m sad. Really, deep down from my head to my toes sad. And tomorrow I’ll get up and try to figure out how I get up, dust off and start to climb again.

I miss you Mr. Bean. I hope tonight I can see you in my dream


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