Blanket Sniffing

Dear Sterling,

It is a hard day. I am overcome with grief. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. I can only sit and wish you were here. So I gather your things and climb back into bed. Your sloth. Your little woobie. Your blankets.

Three little blankets that tell the entire story of your life. One you were wrapped in right after you were born. The next you were swaddled in during our one day at home. Lastly, the one you were wearing when you died.

I hold your things tightly up against my chest, wishing it were you instead. Desperately trying to soothe the burning hole that aches for you, I press them into me.

You should be here.

I find myself anxiously searching for your leftover scent that might be still lingering in the fabric. If I’m lucky, I’ll find it.

I sniff the elephant blanket, the blanket the midwife gave us and wrapped you up in a couple hours after your entrance into the world. This is the one that held onto your smell the longest, but I’m afraid that time is up.

I sniff the one you died in, but that one mostly just smells like the hospital. Not what I was looking for, but still enough visceral memory attached to that hospital room scent that brings me a little closer to you.

And finally, the one I swaddled you in the morning after your birth. After a night of snuggles and breastfeeding, after I dressed you in your one little outfit. The one I unswaddled from around you, going against Daddy’s warnings of disturbing a sleeping baby, so I could snap photos of you to share with the world.

And thank God I did because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have my favorite picture of you. The photo that sits as my phone screen wallpaper and is framed and hung on our wall.  The same photo that I used for your birth announcement and on the cover of your funeral programs.

I sniff and sniff until suddenly, I breathe in a familiar newborn fragrance, sweet and subtle, that warms me to my core. And just like that, I find you.

“Oh, there you are, son. Hi baby. I love you.”

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