Dear Raz,
I miss you today and every day. Every moment. The fact that you aren’t here with us is still untenable. You should be 3 months old today. It is three months from my due date, today.
Your father and I are planning to move out of this home, out of this city, out of this place that you were conceived. We can’t bear the thought of staying in this home any longer. Of staying, and passing by the room that was supposed to be your nursery, every day. We say that we want a fresh start. But we don’t mean to forget you. That isn’t it at all. We will never forget you. Every day that passes pulls me further from you, further from the time you were still alive, still with me. I will never understand why this happened, why you had to go. I can’t continue to do the same things, walk the same paths, go back to the same job. I am not the same person that I was, before you. I need a change. You will come with me, of course, as you live inside my heart and my mind now. It is the most painful thing to admit. To come to terms with. That you will never be here. I think I still believe at times that this is all false, this is just a temporary madness. That one day this whole thing will be over, and our lives will start again. We’ll pick right back up where we left off. I’ll wake up, and you’ll be in the bassinet next to my bed, and I’ll reach over and hold you in my arms. I wish. I wish. I wish.
I would do anything for that.
Today we went to a friend’s house. They have a son, born in January. He is six months old. They have a daughter, 20 months old. I held him, the boy, and he smiled up at me. The weight of him felt right in my arms. I thought, “I am supposed to be holding a baby of my own.” Another friend was there with her 18 month old son. We took a photograph, all of us. One couple and their son. One couple and their two children. Matan and I, arms empty, missing you, a son gone before he lived, only remaining in our hearts.
It is a heartbreaking, bittersweet photo. You are supposed to be in it. There is no doubt in my mind. That is what should have happened. Something went wrong, something went way off course. Something happened.
But that is what happened. Something terrible happened. Some freak, tragic, inexplicable thing happened. And you were taken from me.
It is the saddest thing that has ever happened to me.
I wish I could see you now, a three month old. Would your legs have rolls of baby fat? Would you be smiling at me when I entered a room? Would your arms reach up for me? Would you hate tummy time, or love it? Would you have curly hair, or straight? Would you sleep well, or wake often?
I don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I will never know the answers to these questions. I will never know you, my child. I will never get to know you, and that is the most heartbreaking. To have everything I wanted, so close, and then to have it snatched away in the last possible moment, is a painful thing.
This place, this home, where you were conceived, and waited for, will always be missing you. And so we will move, in five weeks, to a new place, to a new home. We will bring your memory, your ashes. This home will always be special to me. But I cannot stay here forever. The sad memories are all mixed up with the happy ones. It is awful to think of the could have beens, should have beens. I try not to let myself go there very often anymore. I try to look forward. I try to focus on doing. Doing tasks, doing chores, making lists, checking things off of them. I am trying to be excited about the future. I think I must be delusional for this, because I more than anyone, know that the future isn’t promised. Nothing is. And nothing is in my control. I thought something was for certain, and now I know nothing is. And yet I am still here, and I am still hoping. I am pretending that I am okay, in the hopes that one day I eventually will be.
The truth is that I am not okay. I have a hole inside me, I am filled with sorrow. I am good at hiding it. I am good at acting strong, I must be strong now, for your father, for myself, and for you. I want to be someone that you would be proud of, that you would love. I want to love, and be capable of loving others. I cannot control that you died, and that you are gone. I cannot change it. I can only look forward. I can only remember the happiness I felt while I was pregnant with you, and remember the small hours we spent together. It is not enough, it will never be enough. But it is all I have. So I will hold it close.

Dear Amanda, I am thinking about you and Raz on this cold morning in South Africa. I feel your pain so acutely, as if it were my own. Because ten years ago it was, today it still is. I've learned to breathe, to sit with my myriad of emotions and so it's all I wish for you. Breath. May this move be all you need. I am deeply sorry Raz isn't here with you as he should be, but as you and I know we'll, he is always, always, with you.