Dear Sabrina...all the things that remind me of you.
baby book filled with cards
In the months we waited for you, I nested. We painted the attic walls and set up a space for you. Daddy put together the white crib and I bought new pink flower sheets. We filled your dresser drawers with tiny girl clothes. I loved washing and folding and remembering when Abigail was so small. I added warm winter snuggly pieces. We hung art on the walls and made a place to welcome you.
In our room, we set up a co-sleeper for those first few months. I packed hospital bags...one for me and one for you. I sewed burp cloths and blankets and waited for you.
After you died, we slowly put things away. There were some things that went quickly like your car-seat. It reminded me that you didn't come home from the hospital on Christmas morning. There were other things that were comforting and stayed with us for a while. And some that waited for another baby. I slept for months holding onto a little pink hat of yours.
I filled a yellow box they gave me at the hospital with your things: your beautiful lock of strawberry blond hair, your prints, pressed petals from the funeral, hospital tags.
When I saw your baby book, it made me so sad. The first few pages were full of the promises of a new life. The rest were empty reminders of all the firsts that would never happen.
So I began filling it with all of the cards given to us after you died. Your baby book is filled with words from Grandpa Ed and Auntie Anne, and family and friends from Idaho, Arizona, Montana, Washington, and Oregon. Your book is full of the people who loved you. The pages are no longer empty. Your baby book is filled with cards.
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