A letter to my son, Jason Sebastian ♥

 Your mother and I decided that it was time to convert your room into an office / craft room.  Son, my heart is heavy with this decision.  I've kept your room intact for almost two years... 

Since you were born, that room has been a safe haven for me.  I go there to think; to grieve; to talk to you; and to feel peace.  I go there when I miss you; I imagine you in your crib. I've played with your toys; unfastened and refastened the velcro of the cute flip flops you would have worn last summer.  I dust and polish the furniture regularly. I sit in the glider and rock back and forth with my feet up on the ottoman; wishing I was rocking you to sleep.  I meditate. I touch the elephants... a gift from your grandmother.  I open the dresser drawers and unfold and refold tiny infant clothes that you never got to wear.  I admire the beautiful diaper bag your mother bought for me to carry and the collection of cloth diapers inside.  I close my eyes and feel the fuzzy and soft fabrics.  I pick up your mother's childhood doll... the one wearing your Dolphin jersey.  I vacuum the area rug and sweep and mop the room every week.  I glance at the baby book we special ordered to document our "two-moms" pregnancy, which has no reference to "father" or "dad".  The empty pages in that beautiful book make me sad.

Your ashes are in your room as well, in a beautiful leather box resting on the dresser.  Sometimes I open the box and look inside. "It's a Boy!"... the card placed on your bassinet at the hospital, greets me as I open it. There is a tiny robe and a sweet baby blanket with traces of blood on it... probably my blood, but nonetheless a memento - a part of your birth - and possibly something only a mother could treasure without washing. I smell everything that touched your skin, even though there are no scents. There are also a few photographs and a DVD that was sent to us by the photographer. Aside from the memories and a few iPhone photographs, it's all we have left of your precious angelic face and traces of what would have become a very prominent dimple on your chin; just like your great grandfather. And lastly, in a tiny container, ashes of my 10.2 ounce baby boy that will one day be laid to rest with me.

On top of the dresser, are a few books... the last ones your mama read to you while I had headphones on my belly.  I know you enjoyed them, because I felt you move.  Then again; you probably just enjoyed the sound of her voice.  She has a lovely voice, your mother.  I wish she could have sang to you.  Well, she did when she held you, but you were already in heaven.  Under the books, there is a folder containing your baptism certificate.  I was so glad that you were baptized.  I also have your footprint card there.  I love the beautiful shape of your hands and feet. Your foot prints and hand prints are so tiny; the size of a quarter.

You had my toes. I'm so sorry about that, son, your mother doesn't have the prettiest feet in the world - but I couldn't have been prouder than when you were born and I noticed your big toe sticking straight up in the air, just like mine.  You are so beautiful.  Memories of your birth will stay with me until the day I die.  When I held you for the first time I just stared at your gorgeous face and perfect body; I memorized you. I can close my eyes and still see you; though sometimes I'm afraid that the picture in my brain is fading... thank God I have photographs.

I love you so much, Jason, and sometimes I just don't know how to stop missing you...

But, my sweet angel, I need to let go of the past.  Sometimes I look around your room and see traces of unfinished projects; a reminder of how abruptly we lost you, changing our lives forever.  Your mama has found it incredibly hard to be in the room, let alone finish it.  There are pictures that were never hung on the wall... crown molding that wasn't installed... and curtains that were not hung.  There is a door knob that wasn't replaced, a light switch plate that was not mounted, and closet doors that were not painted.  There's a crib with no bedding and walls with no decorations.  There is even a lamp without a bulb.

I have had nearly two years of happiness and misery and peace in that room.  Your beautiful angel mother is the most amazing woman I have ever known; in all my time of sorrow and grief, she never ever told me the one thing I should have known.  Your empty room makes her sad.  That's enough for me to say that it's time to let go of what once was and look forward to new beginnings.  She wants me to be happy and I want her to be happy.  She has been so selfless to allow me to have all this time; my space (your room); a safe haven where I knew nobody would interrupt my thoughts for as long as I have had it.  She never once made me feel bad for keeping your room intact or spending time in it... I was just too sad to notice that she didn't have the same calming feelings. I know you understand that I have to do this for her; for us.  Letting go of what would have been your room is healthy for us. It's a good thing...

It's time.  We are going to take the crib apart with the same caution and care and respect as when we put it together for you, so that it will be perfect for your brother or sister.  We are going to empty the dresser drawers and pack away all the cute baby boy clothes and save it for your little brother one day.  We are going to store the shoes and books and photos. We will relocate your ashes to our room. We will bring in new furniture; a desk, a table, and maybe some chairs... and we will make this space usable again.  Your mama said she still wants it to be my special space; hence why we are turning it into a craft room.  I know you didn't get to know me very well, son, but your mommy loves arts and crafts.  I promise, the changes we are making will make me very happy. 

I know it will be extremely hard to pack away the traces of your life, but I look forward to the day that I can walk into our home again and not feel the emptiness I sometimes feel when I glance at your door...  I mean, my craft room.  Maybe letting go will help my heart heal.  Most importantly, maybe your mama won't feel sad for me and will finally be able to start grieving your loss as well... because she has been amazing to me; so strong and supportive and selfless and I just know she has not processed it like I was able to.  I only hope that I have half the amount of courage, strength, and stability that she had for me when she needs a shoulder to cry on.  I know you're watching over us, so flutter by and give her a hug every once in a while...