I am scared.

I shouldn’t be, but I am.

The case sits there, calling my name, beckoning me to open it, but I lack the courage and the conviction to face those memories.

I have not held Avery since Christmas.  In fact, I have not pulled him out of his case since Christmas Day.  And it hurts my heart, I ache to hold his box of ashes, to be present with him, sit with the memories.

But the idea of being transported back to a scary place is too overwhelming and frightening.  How do I willingly subject my heart and my senses to that place again?

His case smells like his memories, the bath soap I washed him in, the clothes I dressed him in, the blanket I wrapped him in.  The blanket I still wrap him in.

I wonder what has changed since I last held him, and I realise a lot.  When I last held him I was pregnant with hope, with Colt.  When I last held him it was Christmas Morning and I was in a different place.

And then everything fell apart.  

Since then I have been on a new medication.  They are for anxiety, but they have had a better side effect – they allow me to feel.  To experience.  To face my emotions, and to be present and in the same moment as my grief and my memories.  But it also means I know that I am likely to cry, to sob, to ache.  It means I will have to forcefully put my heart into a precarious position of aching and breaking.

Just touching the case makes me feel overwhelmed.

But it is coming up to 9 months.  And I know I need to touch the blue box of ashes.  Hear them rattle against the side of the box and face, once more, that my son is never coming home.

Avery in his Little Brown Box, before…

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