Guest Post by Helen
My son was born in March. Spring; the season of new life. I brought the beautiful, healthy little boy I had carried for nine months into the world, and two days later I watched him fade away. Spring escaped me.
And then, somehow, it was summer. The summer I had dreamed of, with warm days and rainy nights. The summer that I would spend taking long walks with my son nestled in his pram, the summer that I would plant flowers in our garden. And watch them grow, with him.
There were no flowers in our garden. Nothing grew or thrived. Summer came and went, barely noticed, spent indoors huddled together in grief.
And up crept the Autumn. The season of wellington boots, crunchy leaves, finger-paints and first pumpkins. My favourite season of all – the one I had planned for a lifetime. September: a naming ceremony, blue bunting and cupcakes, and a lifetime of dreams to unfold. The six month anniversary of Aidan’s birth and death. No cupcakes, or bunting. No dreams. Just a name washed away by tears and the tide. Sand under our fingernails and loss weighing heavily in our hearts.
Winter is here now, with it’s frosty chill. Our perfect Christmas will slip away. Invalid, ignored. No toy cars under our Christmas tree, no excitement on Christmas morning. Just a solitary Christmas bauble which bears a name that is music to my ears, yet I barely get to speak out loud.
Snowflakes will fall and the year will end.
A fourth season without my son. The final chapter in our first year without him.
And then it will be Spring, again. A new season, a new year.
Without him. Always.
But with him, still.