Up until that moment, the hardest thing I did was bury my husband and son. It didn’t prepare me, however, for the agony of packing away our child’s belongings. Everything I touched had a memory. From the crib that Ryan and I spent weeks shopping for to the first pair of booties I knitted myself. Every item evoked an image that burned itself in my mind.
As I ran my fingers over the careful stitches of a yellow blanket my mother made for RJ, it became too much to deal with. My hand shook, and the tears fell. Again.
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