Three.

My baby loss remembrance ribbon pinned to my coat, breakfast with a friend, quiet snuggles with Emma's little brother, a bouquet of deepest red from us and pink roses from her grandparents arranged around her headstone, a butterfly cake with lashings of vanilla butter cream and silver sparkles. So many cards and well wishes, tears and laughter and reminiscences and moments of "what if ..." and a night at a cottage by the sea, with lashings of white wine, her candle and a roaring fire.

It was a good day, really it was. Still missing her, still missing my Emma.

The day before.

I want to write "I miss my baby" and copy it billions of time, press publish and crash the internet with my desperate longing for what can never be. I miss her, I miss the weight of her in my arms, the feel of ticklish sucking as she nurses, the damp, flushed hugs of a toddler bewildered by bad dreams. I never had any of it but I miss it. Oh, I miss it.

This time three years ago I was deep in labour, so close to meeting my baby. I think this day might just be worse than tomorrow. On the fourteenth, by the time most people grumbled their way out of bed, D. and I had been wondering where life went and what happens now for several hours. We had our baby in our arms and she was beautiful and time was meaningless. We tend to celebrate on the fourteenth - celebrate love and beauty. Celebrate with tears, maybe but with cake and laughter too. But the day before is a day of grief - grief for what could have been and what can never be. I miss my baby, I miss my baby, I miss my baby, I miss my baby ....

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

 From my favourite Keats poem, To Autumn.

I have always loved Autumn - I love the cosiness and the crunchiness, the chance to light fires and wear thick, woolen tights.  There is a relief at arriving here after the heat of summer, which does not suit my temperament. I love searching for conkers on the village green and going on crunchy leaf walks with toddlers in froggy wellingtons.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ...fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

 I still love the season but I stand, broken and grieving with my dead child in my heart, resenting nature's fecundity.  I stand a moment, of an evening, watching the sky turn glorious shades of crimson and orange before I draw the curtains and turn inwards. I call those skies our "Emma sunsets" and I welcome them, even as they break my heart.

I dread and long for her birthday in equal measure too. I don't need a single day to cherish Emma or to celebrate and love her but it is good to have a day that is hers, truly hers. But, the heaviness ... oh the heaviness. I am slow and sluggish now, crabbed and sharp, constantly tired with the anticipation of what is coming.

She will be three. My older children separated (just a little) from me when they were three; attending pre-school for two hours each morning. It was a happy and healthy parting for us with joyful reunions over junk modelling and finger-painted self portraits. I should be anticipating the same for Emma.  But our parting took place many years ago, just hours after she was born, and there is no possibility of a reunion in this life. And I hate that. I can see my breath on the air in the mornings but I can't see my child.