Marking the Time

In a baby's first year, each month is a milestone. It is a way of marking the time, seeing how much growth has occurred. Some mothers track these days carefully. They take photos of their baby in the same position each month, delighting over the growth they see. They might jot down milestones they've experienced, the things their child currently likes, little personality traits that are slowly but surely emerging. Wonderful little memories of Baby's First Year.

Our first year looks different, but that doesn't stop me from marking the time that has passed. These monthly milestone days carry a significance I doubt they would have if Reed were here. But to me, they are significant.

Castlewood Canyon: January 10, 2020

Each month on the tenth, I go on a hike. I always go somewhere I've never been before. I wanted to show my son the world; instead he is helping me discover places I've never been. Sometimes Marc joins me. Sometimes Reed's auntie, the person who loves Reed most in the world (aside from his parents) tags along and we talk about our favorite memories with him. I've taken trails close to my house that I've never before bothered to explore, and I've driven hours to find places I would never have gone. What started as a way to simply survive our first month without him has evolved into a tradition I look forward to and enjoy.

Today was Reed's six month birthday. We have made it halfway through our first year. I would say our first year without Reed, but one of the most surprising and refreshing realizations I have had in the past six months is that we aren't exactly without him. If you don't understand this...well, lucky you. Six months seemed like a significant milestone, so I wanted my hike to be extra special today. I picked Sylvan Lake State Park, because there was a six mile trail, which seemed appropriate, and because Marc could fish while I was hiking. It took hours, just me and the dogs, but it was so beautiful. A trail I probably never would have taken, except I wanted to do something special with my son on his six month birthday, and this is what that looks like in my family.

I hiked through aspen groves while listening to the breeze as it softly rustled the leaves. I guided my dogs over felled trees and under low hanging branches. I tried to quietly photograph swallowtail butterflies, and marveled at the craftsmanship of the beaver dams as we crisscrossed the creek. I felt the sun on my face and tried to understand just how many shades of green exist in this beautiful world. When I got tired, I sat by the edge of a babbling brook and read a story that Reed's best friend's mother had written for our children.

Through it all, Reed was with me. He was in every thought I had along that six mile trail. I wish I had some profound moment to share here, some example of beautiful synchronicity that cannot be explained any other way. I don't. All I can say is that some days my heart is empty while I rage and cry over the injustice of losing my boy, and other days it is remarkably full, delighting in his existence and the beauty he has brought to my shattered world. Today was the latter.

Reed is with his father and I, always. Not only in the flowery, poetic, spiritual way you might think, but in the ways that we have changed since meeting him. He is on our minds at all times, even when others cannot tell. He is with us In the ways our hearts overflow when we talk about him, or gaze lovingly at his picture. We can never go back to a time before we had our son, a time when we were a family of two, nor would we want to. The pain of losing Reed is matched only by the absolute joy of having him; no matter what our story looks like today, it includes this little boy, this stubborn, brave, wonderful little boy who I will love every single day of my life. Marc and I carry Reed in our hearts wherever we are, and it is absolutely not as good as being able to carry him in our arms. But it's what we've got, and boy are we grateful we got to have him.