This is part of a poem that my mom gave me shortly after Wyatt passed away. I believe that my dad actually found it and gave it to her to read and then she passed it along to me. The first time I read it, I couldn’t finish the first stanza. I attempted to read it several times after that and never quite made it that far into the poem. When I finally accomplished reading the entire poem, I remember barely being able to see the words through my gallons of salty tears. I usually read over it again when guilt is rearing its ugly head again. Though we’ll never know exactly what happened that led to his death, these few words in this poem give me a moment of peace that it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. I know this with every logical cell in my body, but where most people want to find others to blame; I put things on me. It is definitely a character flaw. My point is that I work hard everyday to make sure that my other two boys know that they are loved, if nothing else. When a baby dies, you can’t help but wonder if he really knows how much he is loved and is still wanted. I don’t know the author of this poem, but I would imagine that he or she has either suffered a loss of this magnitude or are very close to someone who has to be able to speak so raw about this.
I see, hear, and feel signs of Wyatt quite often. Maybe it is because I talk about him so often. Maybe it is because I’m looking for them; or maybe it is because he knows that his mommy needs that to be somewhat whole. With Love-Heather