I cried myself to sleep ...

For some reason the past few days have really been difficult.  Tomorrow being the first day of November seems like the inevitable is so soon.  As long as it were any other month then the anniversary was obscure and distant.  Now it's only a few very short weeks away.  And the reality of it is crushing.

I cried last night because I missed my baby.  I cried because I wonder what he'd look like today.  Would he be walking already like his brothers or still stumbling along, preferring to crawl?  Would he have a tooth already or be drooling constantly without anything to show for it?  Would he be baby-signing and talking or stubborn and just smile and cry when he wanted something?  Would he sleep well through the night or still be fussy?  Would he be a size 12 months or 18 months?  Would he ... would he ... would he ... ?

Daydreaming (and night dreaming) are the enemy. They are the times where the haunting of what's been and what will never be seep in and terrorize the mind ... and the heart.

Eleven days until the day I believe my son died....
Fifteen until I accepted it...
Sixteen until they confirmed it...
Eighteen until he left me forever.

And I don't know how I'll make it through even one without drowning in these tears.