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Small, big, forever bundle of Miracle

It’s so hard to talk or comply with life simply going on without you. I think of you with every ray of sunshine, with every wind blow I feel your skin touching mine and it’s been 9 months since I touched you last time. This reality seems so unreal. Spending every day thinking what would you look like today or what would you do as a baby. I know it makes my heart hurt so bad, but it also makes it smile when I think of your smile and your olive skin and the curved corners of those greenish, beautiful eyes even though I almost never saw them. I am able to imagine them like they are real sometimes. I feel that with going away you’ve become bigger part of me than you were in my belly. There is a small notebook I have, it’s our door to each other’s world.

I pour my thoughts and feelings on its pages and when I close it, she’s able to open it and read it. Call me as you wish. I smelled her skin, I smelled her death and I still feel her smell in our special moments. It might be that I created another reality in the meantime, for the two of us, to escape, and to cuddle in our thoughts, eyes closed, nostrils sharp like a wolfs. It might be that she is really there, scratching through the holes of that world sometimes, answering to my tears and my notes to her with her smell. In religion today is a day of miracle, at least from daddy’s side, mine day is next week. We celebrate waking up of those who fell asleep forever. If I would claim I don’t believe in miracles, I would be very wrong. I saw one last year, held it my arms, after I held it in my belly for almost 9 months. I did however realise that miracles are something completely different than what we expect them to be. I prayed and put all the energy I had that time into keeping you alive, but you couldn’t, and we had to decide. I hated making decisions before but putting you asleep forever was the hardest decision I have ever taken. I hated all the Gods, all the Universe, all the ones who could live and you didn’t have conditions to. I hoped that your fight to breathe last breaths on your own would turn into you breathing normally. I was holding you in my arms with your pink blanket seeing you for the first time without all the tubes. I hoped till your last breath. I hoped again after your body ceased to breathe. Until your last heart beat. Your shape in that pink blanket I keep in a box next to my bed is forever carved in my arms. Even though it took several hours, I don’t remember you dying, I remember you living. And although miracles don’t happen as we would like them to happen, they do happen. You were my 9 days turned into a whole life miracle. Yes, I wish to hold you again. Yes, I wish I could teach you how to stand on your own and have our bed filled with your baby smell. But until some other reality happen, we do time or other dimension travel, I have our small ThinkOfMe notebook, our doors between the worlds. I hold you in my chests tightly and I have the open, blue skies to look at you and fresh, far from traveling wind to feel you.

It’s so hard to talk or comply with life simply going on without you, but as long sun shines and the winds blow you will be here, my small miracle.

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