letters to my lost son

You would have been nine months old if we had journeyed together to your due date.
Nine months!
My big boy.
Would you have been a chubby like me or long and lean like daddy?
Or maybe a lovely mix of just right?

Life would have been so different.
I wouldn't be writing letters to you.
We would be talking about everything. I might not have understood but I know you would have lots to say.
I wouldn't have been searching out scraps of remembrances to keep in a box.
I would have been filling a hard drive with photos, the walls with hand prints and the charity shops with your grown-out-of clothes.
I wouldn't be carefully placing in my memory box those crocheted booties made by your great grandmother for the great grandchildren she wouldn't meet but imagined having.
Have you met her? Nanny Boucher? Have you met Nanny and Granddad Rose? Are you all together?

No. Perhaps I think you and they are everywhere.
In the air that I breathe.
In the water that I drink.
In the earth that I walk upon.
Stardust.

I miss you George.

There is a well of love just waiting.