Always.

I have come to accept that the loss of a child means that grief will often catch me off guard and when I least expect it.  No matter how long it has been since Matthew died I will always grieve his loss.

I have not always realized that intense joy can, and will, co-exist along with my crushing sadness and grief. This realization came after a very long and difficult road and did not truly sink in until the birth of Aaron Micheal.

My sweet baby.

Aaron makes me happy.

It doesn’t matter if he is puking his guts out on me, screaming intensely or grinning his head off.

He always makes me happy. 

But just like always, grief can rear its ugly head right along side that joy and happiness.

After a very stressful night of running errands, packing, scurrying, running and puzzling things out, I was finally allowed some down time with my small one.

I grabbed the little butterbean up and snuggled him in my arms. My reward for such glee was a blanket of baby barf that covered the both of us.  When this happens, I can’t stand the thought of his soft skin getting irritated by wet, chafting clothes.

I always change him first. 

I got him out of his wet outfit and only after his diaper was changed did I look down at his little feet.

I saw these:

A searing jolt of shock and pain ripped through me.

Hard.

This pair of socks have been sitting in the drawer of my night stand for almost 6 years.  I have seen them every morning, every evening and many times in between. Someone must have packed up that drawer during our move and mistakenly put them in with Aaron’s little things and then dressed him in them tonight.

For 6 years I’ve held these socks. Worn them on my fingers. Rubbed the fabric to my face. Sobbed into them.

As I looked at the familiar blue material I felt my heart twist and hurt and before I could stop them, tears prickled my eyes and ran down my face as images raced through my mind.

Things I want to forget so much.

Things that will always be with me.

Emergency vehicles all over my lawn.

The smell of the trauma bay.

Flashing lights.

Beeping monitors.

The metalic sound of medical instruments crashing together as a doctor bumped into a cart.

The terrible, horrible screams that seemed to be coming from some other far away place and person but for the burning rawness in my throat that identified them as mine.

And?

My son.

My Little Bug.

My strong, red-headed little man.

My Matthew.

My very loved, very naked, very still baby being worked on by so many medical personel that all I could see were his little white feet.

Cold white feet.

With one blue sock on them.

These socks belonged to Matthew.

He died wearing one of them.

One little blue sock was the only piece of clothing left on the body of my little one. One little blue sock that couldn’t possibly give near enough warmth to him in such a cold, cold place. 

My poor, sweet baby.

I hate grief.

I hate loss.

I hate that I have lost the most precious thing on the earth and that I will never, ever get it back.

I HATE IT.

I always will.

But…

Seeing my wee Aaron wear those dear, treasured socks made me remember my sweet Matthew. How he looked wearing them with the outfit that I spent hours picking out for his first trip to the zoo. How the color of it made his eyes so very blue and just how those sweet eyes lit up and smiled at me long before his little mouth could. How right it is to have a sweet little baby foot wearing them. A foot that I love and treasure just as much as the one that wore that little blue sock so many years ago.

I have another baby to love.

Another chance.

Another gift.

I will never, ever forget my Matthew.

I will never, ever forget my love for him.

He will always make me happy.

And something shifted for me in that moment. A tiny shift for certain, but enough to make the colors of my feelings alter.

And I smiled through my tears.

Seeing those little blue socks on my little babe made me feel closer to my little angel.

It made me feel that part of him is still here.

That he will always be here.

It made me happy.

Just like they both do.

Just like they always will.

Always.