Fingerprints Instead Of A Flicker

September 27, 2017.

The day the flicker stopped.

A few days later I walked out of the hospital without our son.

No baby in my arms. No car seat. No first ride home. No beginning to the life we had already imagined.

I remember it like it was yesterday- my phone being dead, not remembering what vehicle we had rented after the accident, the feeling of absolute disorientation and the feeling of intense grief. A loss I couldn’t prevent.

This is what I have of Kollin.

His tiny handprints.

His tiny footprints.

A few photographs.

His name.

And the memory of a little boy we loved before we ever had the chance to hold him.

I left that hospital carrying things no mother expects to carry instead of her child.

And somehow, almost nine years later, these small pieces still hold an entire life for me.

Our son, Kollin.

Always loved. Never forgotten. ❤️‍🩹