Letters to Emerson

Originally published on 8/4/2022

Grief Journaling - Letters to Emerson

Number 2.

Or should I say 2 trillion. 2 Googles. 2 infinite numbers that don’t yet exist. 

I write letters to you in my mind all the time.
“Did you see that sunset?”
“I wish you could feel the way the air changes before rain.”
“I wanted to show you the fireflies.”
“I miss your smile. The way you’d light up when I walked into the room; like I was the only reason you needed to stay.”

You loved me in a way I will never understand. More than anyone on this earth has ever loved me. You taught me how to fight harder than I had ever fought before.
Because before, I was just fighting for me. And no matter what happened to me, I knew I’d survive.

This time, I fought for more than just myself.

I fought for you.
I fought for us.
I fought for our family.

I still feel like I failed.

How could I not?
You’re not here.
That was the goal, right?
That was the finish line, the winning, the ultimate desire of my heart.
My arms are still empty.
Sometimes, they ache and burn, a restless longing for the weight of you.

I know that I will carry this feeling with me forever.

“Losing a child is like losing a limb.”

I read that once and I’ll never forget it again.

I’ve heard of phantom limb syndrome and I think I have that in my heart, in my head. I used to tell people that I could feel our souls combined, just like I could feel my physical arms and legs.

I don’t think they understand. I can feel the loss of you like I feel the loss of our future.

Not only did we lose you, we lost the entire life that you gave us. The life we should have had with you. And I can’t help but see the warmth and joy and peace in that life. Yes, it would have had it’s hardships, you would have had a long life filled with medical needs. But it looks so much better than the empty arms I stare down at now.

This body carried a baby and now has nothing to show for it.
I know people look at me and see a girl. It’s not the first thought in their minds that I’m a mom.

I’m a mom too.

And I’ve lost the greatest fight I have ever known.
I long for that fight, although I don’t long for the suffering you endured. The procedures and IVs. The diagnoses and the constant barrage of ‘she won’t survive’, ‘take her home and let her die’, ‘it will take a miracle for her to overcome this.’

I go into your room sometimes and sit on the floor with your things in my arms and I just cry.
The ugly crying that no one else is supposed to see, but your dad always finds me there. I wonder if he can feel me the way I used to feel you now.

I miss you so much.

I try to think about the good - your smiles, your almost-there-laughs, your tiny voice, your hands, how strong you were.

Sometimes I can’t see past the pain. And I worry that I caused you more pain by asking you to stay.
I hope you know how much I love you.

I’m staring at your star-filled eyes and sweet, sweet smile today.

We got a kitten named Jasper. He’s all black with one white patch on his belly.

He keeps touching your things.

Playing with your necklace that I wear every day, trying to steal the little bear keychain that says ‘Emmi’ that’s always hooked to my purse.

He likes your stuff.
I think that means he likes you too.