Today.

Today I should be in the hospital with my bag packed full of maternity briefs and nappies and all the things that you and I would need.

Today your daddy and I should have been able to welcome you into our arms.

Today we should have been able to hear you cry, as your tiny lungs took in the dry air for the first time.

Today we should have been able to tickle your tiny feet, and stroke your beautiful, soft golden hair.

Today I should have been able to hold you close to my chest, on my skin, and feel the warmth of your little body against mine.

Today we should have been kissing your tiny lips and soft cheeks.

Today should have been the day that you brought more happiness and joy to your daddy and I than we ever thought was possible.

Today we should have been able to pour out all of the love that we have in our hearts for you, which are so full and yet so empty, like jars clamped full of air.

Today should have been the day that you would have made us three, instead of two.

Perhaps you might have arrived a little before, or a little after – I’m always early.  But this is the day.

Today is the day you should have arrived.

Instead you came too soon, and we held you in our arms, and stroked your tiny feet.

But we did not hear you cry, and we did not feel your warmth.

And we still have all of our love.

Today is the day you should have arrived.

 

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