Twenty-two days ago we got to meet you and had to say goodbye at the same time. We’ve taken day trips to places that we love so that we can take you with us, to keep our hope alive, and it’s so much more peaceful than it used to be. Last night I fought and shared your story with the rest of the (digital) world we are a part of. The hardest part used to be seeing fathers and their children out and about, twisting the knife in a wound I can’t heal. Now it’s different. I see your face on little boys playing baseball or running through sprinklers. I picture teaching you to ride a bike and picking you up after you fall off, knowing you can get it. I imagine watching you stumble when you take your first step, getting up in the middle of the night when you’re crying, and getting to take you to all of your firsts. I know it isn’t meant to be and we’ll see you one day, but the thing I wanted to hear most was your cry, just once. The chance to feel your grip around my finger or see your eyes looking around for the first time; I can’t help but want to take you everywhere with me.
Tomorrow, we’re gathering for you. We’ll have balloons and a cake; Team Jonah will come together to celebrate you, to share stories and laugh and watch children play like you could have one day. And all of those things will carry on because we love you. It won’t be the same, but I don’t want it to be – this is how I take you with me. My heart, my emotions on my sleeve. Every. Day. We love you baby boy, my Jonah.