I gave my head a hard shake and channeled my attention to the scrapbook. It was large, plain black, with white paper pages slipped into protectors. I flipped it open and Miranda sniffled beside me.
The first page was simple. There was a date, a red flower, a green gemstone, and aname. It felt like someone placed a cement block on my shoulders. Why did I not know she named them?
August Joy.
I ran my finger beneath the calligraphy.
“Was this what you named our first baby?”
She gave a tiny nod.
“That’s—really beautiful.” I touched the flower and gem. “Are these birth flower and birthstone?”
“Yes, a gladiolus and peridot.”
I flipped the page. An ultrasound picture. I couldn’t really make much out on it, but I was certain she could.
A burning desire in my chest to flip through these pages as fast as possible nagged me. I could look but not really. Just get it done to appease her. But her gentle sniffling beside me tapped my brakes. Made me remember why I was in freaking therapy.
She needed me to do this. Really do this.
And I probably needed it too. I forced myself to slow down, to look at every piece. To ask questions. Even if I didn’t want answers. Even if I wanted to pretend I’d never let my wife lose these tiny humans alone.
A warmth pricked behind my eyes and I pushed it back.
Sucked in a deep breath.
I touched the black and white photo. “Can you—show me what you see here?”
She pointed out the date of the ultrasound and the gestational weeks. “This right here”—she moved her finger about an inch and half, tracing a white spot—“is the baby. Still really small at that size, but you can make out the head.”
“I see.”
“You were there for this ultrasound.”
“I remember.” I touched a sticker on the edge of the page. “What is this piece of fruit here for?”
“Oh, that shows how big a fetus usually is at nine weeks.”
“The size of a grape?”
“Yeah.”
I chanced a glance at her. Her cheeks were moist, but she was smiling. The next page had fragments of her boarding pass for her homebound flight, a picture of us on our honeymoon. A “forever my joy” in calligraphy. It was her memorial of the loss.
She had scooted closer to me, her torso against my elbow and her shoulder against mine.
We turned the pages together, her explaining every piece.
December Peace. May Grace. January Blessing. October Mercy. March Hope. November Love.
There were blueberries, limes, plums. Even an apple and avocado. On every third page, there was a beautiful phrase in calligraphy. A personalized inscription coinciding with the name of each one.
The last one read. “With all my love.”
There was no way I’d be able to feel these losses as personally as she had. But Iwasfeeling them. Couldn’t remember a time in my life I’d fought tears so hard.
Or maybe I was feeling for Miranda.
