You are our little Succos boy. But you didn’t come home. They say you will not come home for … for a long time

Dearest Sweet Baby-to-Be,

I am bigger than I ever imagined I could be. Full with life, with love, with you. I am waiting, waiting for you to come.

You will come early, I know.

“This will be our Succos baby, our Succos boy,” I said.

Your tatty laughed. “How do you know? What makes you so sure?”

“I just know,” I said.

“You’re such a woman,” he said.

And I just smiled. Because I know. I just know.

I can feel you stretching inside of me, itching to come out. But Tatty’s only building the succah now, getting the walls up straight and tall, building our home-outside-our-home, what will be your first home.

You are getting impatient. I know, because those little bumps and stretches are more painful now, poking and elbowing, sharp little jabs. But it’s okay, baby dear. Mommy’s impatient, too.

I sit at the table, making little blue paper rings for the succah. Powder, baby blue. Your color. I even have little ducky stickers to put on them. I’ll hang this chain myself, wobbling on a folding chair, next to our gold-and-tinsel decorations from last year.

Your tatty comes in and sees me and shakes his head. But he laughs together with me. He’s impatient, too.

We are both so very, very excited to hold you, to greet you, to take you home with us forever. My arms itch to feel your little legs kicking, outside, in this world.

There’s more that we are waiting for. When you arrive, something miraculous will happen. Beyond the miracle of you.

When you arrive, we will be not just two, but three. We will be a family.

I can’t wait to hold you and kiss you.

Your Loving,

Mommy

Dearest Perfect Little Baby,

I was right. And I was wrong.

You are our little Succos boy. But you didn’t come home. They say you will not come home for … for a long time. I can’t even say the rest of what they say.

I sit in the sterile, white NICU, beside your incubator, watching you breathe. Your little chest rises and falls, proof that you are here, that you are real, that you are living. Proving all the doctors in the world wrong.

They say that you are incompatible with life. What do they know? You are life. They say that you are all wrong, that you cannot be. But they are wrong.

You are perfect.

Oh, sweet baby, I’m so scared. Your tatty is so scared. We try to be brave for each other. We try to be strong. We say it’s min haShamayim, that it’s for the best, and we know it is, but still we are so scared.

We try to hold the tears back, but they come anyway, and then we laugh. Sad laughter. We laugh at ourselves, trying to pretend that we are okay, that we are fine. We laugh at two broken beams trying to support each other, even as they fall.

But still you breathe. In and out, in and out. Your little chest rising and falling. Rising to Shamayim, falling to the earth.

Where will you stay?

I dream. I dream foolish dreams, but still I dream. I dream that I will take you home with me and keep you in my bed, snuggled up warm beside me. I dream that you will smile and laugh and crawl and walk and run and play and go to cheder and be the perfect child that I know you really are. I dream that they are all wrong.

I dream that we will take you into the bris of Avraham Avinu. You came along with him, you know. When he came into our succah on the very first night, you wanted to come too.

And then I wake up and the dream is gone, and I see your tiny little body in a sterile incubator, wrapped in a diaper that is far too big, with too many tubes, with terrible, horrible, evil words etched on your chart.

Prove them wrong, my sweet, dear boy. Please, prove them wrong.

Your Loving,

Mommy

My Dearest Neshamaleh,

I am shivering now, cold and empty and wanting you. My arms, my chest, my whole body remembers how you felt, lying on me in those last hours, that last forever that disappeared before I could even fully grasp it.

They said you were failing. One system after another. That it was just another few hours and nothing would make a difference. And so we could hold you. Stroke your face with our bare hands. Kiss you. Finally.

How bittersweet.

I cried as soon as I scooped you up, tears streaking down from my face to yours, terrified and aching and exhilarated to finally feel the weight of you, to kiss your cheeks and eyes and nose and smell your sweet esrog scent. To hold you close and know you. To try to know you.

I want to know you. But I am left wondering. Who are you, my sweet, dear son?

They said you were failing. But again, they were wrong. You didn’t fail. You succeeded. You had a mission and you fulfilled it. You are complete now.

So why can’t I rejoice for you?

The chevra kadisha came. They took your pure little body, and took you into the bris of Avraham Avinu. Your fellow ushpizah. They gave you a secret, holy name, and buried you in a secret, holy place.

Where are you now, ephemeral child? Where does your body rest? I could search the entire world and never find you. And if I did — would it ease my pain, calm my soul?

I do not know. All I know is that I will see you in the World to Come, in another, forever Life.

I want you now. I want you now, sweet son. And you are gone.

Your Forever Loving,

Mommy