It seems such a long, long time since Freddie was born. I’m back at work, and so much has happened. Sometimes I actually feel happy. Then I have a stark memory of Sam holding Freddie, or something else devastating, and it catches me by the guts, and the backs of my eyes begin to prickle and I feel that any happiness I felt has been drawn right back out of me and instantly dissolved, as if it never happened.
I am almost up to the amount of time that Freddie lived inside me. It’s a strange thought, and I’m not sure whether it’s more painful than it is soothing. In some ways it marks the length of time that Freddie lived, which has felt like a lifetime, in others it seems so short, and somehow feels as if part of the connection we had will be lost.
It still feels more difficult to write than it did before; everything still seems very jumbled, like a bag of old wool all knotted together; it’s difficult to pluck out my thoughts distinctly and express them in a way that makes sense. But I keep trying, because it seems to help.
So, my beautiful son, if you were 6 months old now, you would be learning to roll over, maybe crawling, grasping at my food to have a taste for yourself, if you hadn’t already. Your daddy would rush home from work to hoist you up in his arms and kiss your soft little cheeks and you would giggle and I would laugh at the sight, and feel happy.
6 months, and I still haven’t moved any of the tiny clothes from the little white wardrobe in the room where we dry the washing when it rains.