December

This time is not supposed to come. A year is not supposed to happen this way. I should not have to measure your death. It should be your height, your weight, your new teeth. Each month you grew up away from me. A candle flicker is how I turn on a night light for you. A pebble in a rain puddle is how I give you a bath. A breath taken too deeply into my breast is how I feed you. I was looking for papers, I came across your clothes. Frost, you have clothes here on Earth. They are in a drawer and in a closet. They are crisp and new and sweetly miniature. They do not smell of newborn. They smell of cedar. The wood that preserves. But what good is the saving of something you never touched, never soiled, never slept in? What good is the preserving of my memory of buying the outfits when I thought that you would fill them, and play and kick and cuddle? I WANT TO SEE YOU WALK. I WANT TO HEAR YOU SAY MAMA. I WANT TO FEEL YOU SQUEEZE MY HAND. I want to know if you can see me cry. I want to know if my crying hurts you. If it does, I will stop. I don't want to hurt you. Some days I do stop, and people are satisfied. When I don't stop, when I can't stop, people are taken back to not knowing what to do. It's seems so much easier to change a baby's diaper than to mend an injured soul. I miss you terribly tonight, because I know that I love who you would be.
Night, night Frost,
Mama loves you