All Our Life is Dew

One of my co-workers, Blair, brought us a delicious dinner a few nights ago, and she gave me this beautiful figurine. It is a visual representation of how I always felt with Sage, that he was so close he was almost a part of me. And now there is a gaping emptiness where his little body used to fit against mine. My hands don't know what to do. I feel like an amputee. There is the ghost sensation of holding him.

Yesterday I was completely lost in the pain of this. Michael and I walked at Hendrick's park, and I kept thinking of how Sage would have been fascinated by the rhododendrons, the fountain, the humming bird, and everything around him. I heard a child call out, "Daddy!" and I mourned that we will never hear Sage say a word. I was so looking forward to that because I imagined he would have a lot to tell us.

And I guess he did tell us a lot, even without words. I know he felt loved and safe. I know he was excited about learning and exploring the world. I know he liked to visit other people, but that when he needed comfort or reassurance he wanted me to hold him. I know that he was happy most of the time. His papa could make him belly laugh. His Grammy played with him like it was the only important thing in the world to do. He had a multitude of devoted admirers to flirt with at my work. There is some comfort in knowing his short life was joyful.

The poet, Issa, wrote a beautiful haiku after the death of his infant daughter:

dew evaporates --
and all our life is dew:
so dear, so fresh, so fleeting