reaching out

After returning home yesterday from going to the cemetery and funeral home, I collapsed on the bed and grief and sorrow overtook me. On one level, I am so weary of the tears, of the grief. But no matter how hard I try to stop the unceasing tears, my new companions, sorrow and grief, will not let me rest until I acknowledge them--wrestle with them. 

In the midst of such a moment of unending sadness, David surprised me. He reached up with his little hand and pressed up near the top of my stomach. It was not the familiar sharp jab of an elbow or foot. Nor was it the shifting and turning I sometimes feel. It was the feathery feel of little fingers. He was reaching out, reaching up with his little hand, almost as if to say, "I'm here, mommy." Tears of sadness became tears of joy. No doctor's prognosis, no trip to a cemetery can take away the joy of that moment. And no one in the world but me was privileged to share in that moment with my son.

Yes, in the spring, my arms and the bassinette that I bought will be empty. There will be no baby to proudly introduce like my friends do after 9 long months. But my heart will be full of tender, precious moments with my son--memories that fill me with joy--and no one can take that away.