The box

         Today I opened his box.  A box that sits up high in my closet.  Just knowing it's there wells up emotions in me I can't even explain.  And today I opened it.  I have not touched it, nor have I made much effort to think about the fact that my sons entire life is contained in a 15"x 20" box.  I could feel my heartbeat accelerate as I pulled it down and sat it on the edge of my bed.  I know what's in it so I'm not quite sure why I had the sudden urge to bring it down.  I am one of those that likes to hold onto things for memories sake, and lately I find myself letting go of a lot of stuff that just doesn't seem to matter so much.  But this, if there is one thing I would grab on my way out the door in a fire, it would be this box.  I know he is not in this box, nor does the box contain who he is, but this box is all I have left of him, well the physical him.  The gown he was dressed in, the blanket he was swaddled in.  The heart shaped box I was given at the hospital containing bracelets, a tiny hat and footprints.  And then there were the pictures.  Being a photographer I thought a lot about how I would photograph my baby, but instead I am left with just a handful of horribly composed, awfully lit photographs of my precious son.  And yet they are my most treasured photos.  I was however blessed to have someone there to take a few digital photos with my camera (much better than the hospital ones) and to me he looks perfect.  This was the first time I had looked at the pictures of him that the hospital took.  I drew around the curves of his face with my finger.  I kept trying to hold onto the image because somehow I feel like I'm going to forget what he looks like.  I see so many faces all day and I just want to remember his.

       I like the image I have of him in my head, and in my dreams.  Perfect, angelic, happy, complete.  I think about what he would have been like as a newborn.  I'm quite certain that even through my grogginess I would still think he was perfect.  I am mourning what I don't have right now with him.  Nursing, sleepless nights, cuddling, baby yawns, bonding, crying (me due to lack of sleep) I spent the last few months mourning pregnancy and now I'm mourning what would be my newborn.  Before I couldn't look at a pregnant woman, and now I can't look at a baby.  It's amazing how the mind works through grief.

      I wasn't sure I would ever open the box for fear that it would send me right back to the day four months ago exactly that I packed up this box and put it in my closet.  I thought I would become a mess on the floor unable to move from my bedroom for days because the pain was to intense.  Instead, the familiar smell of the hospital filled the room and a few tears streamed down my cheeks and I took a moment to take it all in, and then I closed it.

            Today I opened his box and then I closed it.  Today I opened a wound to find it healing.  Today I remembered my son.  I put his box back up in my closet, not really sure when I will open it again.  I am so glad that I have these things of his, but I realized I don't need a box to remember my son.  When my days on this earth are through the box will remain, well,  a box.  But I will be with my son.  I will miss him everyday until then, but today I got to remember him.