Dreams

I keep dreaming about you, Wyatt, the same way I pictured you would be in life. You're a sweet toddler running around our yard in a baseball jersey that's a little too big. You have a big heart and are emotional, like your dad. You love baseball but you're calmer than your older sister. These are the visions I had of you when you were inside me and these are the dreams that haunt me now. Not so much that the dreams themselves are terrible; they usually interchange between the beautiful but too-silent baby that you were at the hospital to this image of you in a jersey. I wake up feeling the emptiness as if it were brand-new everyday since it seems that I have just interacted with you, when infact I cannot even touch you. You're spirit was here with us and it was felt very strongly. We already knew your personality and you were already a member in this family. Just because you weren't born yet didn't mean you weren't here. You had a bed and a room, some clothes and some toys. You were part of our everyday conversations and our entire future together as a family included you. Some of the most painful realizations after you passed were that I would never hear your voice, know what your favorite ice cream flavor was, or celebrate your birthday with your friends- whoever they would be. All of these things that should have been were suddenly no more. I would never say "I have four children", now I am back to having three. That's not my family. I have four children. I have a son named Wyatt, and he is beautiful.