Home

M. went to the funeral home to get William's ashes yesterday. I stayed home with the kids to hard boil eggs. The Easter bunny is coming on Sunday, and we have to have eggs for him to hide. Life goes on, even here.

It occurred to me today... I never bought William anything for Easter. Not even a little outfit. Was it just absent-mindedness on my part? Did I jinx myself? Or did I know, somehow, that he wouldn't be here for Easter? 

We stood at the table in a circle around my son's ashes, and my husband said a little blessing. And then he said something that made me want to put my fist through a window. 

"I'm glad he's home. I didn't know I would feel that way, but I feel better, knowing he's here."

You see, I had the exact opposite reaction. 

My son is most decidedly NOT home, and holding a plastic bag full of his ashes made that awful point even more horrifyingly true. William is gone, and only his ashes remain. We might have what's left of him, maybe, but he is not home.

Trust me, I've looked. 

He is not in his cosleeper, tucked next to our bed, nor is he in his crib. He is not in the diapers I lovingly chose and washed in preparation for his arrival. He is not in any of the little onesies or outfits family and friends excitedly bought for us. He is not in his swing or the bouncy seat or his car seat or his sling. He is most definitely not in my arms, or at my breast. 

He is not home. 

He will never be home.The only thing we have are his ashes, an amazingly tiny bit of dust in a plastic bag with a metal tag and a number on it, brought home in a black plastic box placed in a black gift bag. Some gift. Thanks a lot.

Like the memory box, it's just another thing to put on a shelf. Something that will gather dust, that we'll move from place to place. Babies don't belong on shelves. Children don't belong in closets. The life that once started, developed and grew within me is gone. In the black box on my dresser is just what's left of the vessel he moved into, and ultimately, out of. 

The truth is, I don't want a memorial. I don't want William's ashes. I want my baby. I want to hold him, I want to nurse him, I want to watch him change hour to hour, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year. Ashes don't grow. Ashes don't smile or coo or give wet, sloppy toddler kisses or say, "I love you, Mommy." 

Ashes don't come home. 

My son will never come home.