Right here.

I’ve mentioned before that Silas’ godparents’ baby died at eight weeks old.

Today would have been Gwen’s fifth birthday.

This morning, the first thing Silas did was climb into bed with me, pat my cheek and say, “I’ll never leave you, Mama.”

And then I realized what day today is, and how her death has been, in some ways, part of Silas’ life, although he never knew her. Going to a baby’s funeral when you can feel your own baby kicking inside of you is an experience that leaves you marked forever. I remember being terrified of losing him, and also feeling guilty that I had him, that my arms were filled when my friend’s were emptied. Those early days, I had a hard time connecting with Silas, and I wondered if it was because he was a terrible baby (which he was) or because I had been so close to the raw void of losing a child that I feared it too much to allow myself to really love him. Now I think it was a little of both.

I only recently told Silas about Gwen and her short life. He wanted to see pictures of her–luckily, we have many–and asked a few questions, but mostly was quiet. I thought he’d have a lot of questions, but he hasn’t brought it up since our first conversation about it.

I never know how much to make of these strange things that my kids do. Maybe it’s all just a coincidence, and maybe it has some deeper meaning.

Still, I start my day reassured that he has no plans to leave.