“Tyler, I miss her,” I whispered.

The non-existent clock in our room ticked three seconds too long before a sleep-talking Tyler muttered, “…yeah.”

I let out a sigh of both relief and pain; it was nice that Tyler was asleep, but I knew I’d be facing the rest of that dark night alone.

My mind often wanders at night. Last night it wandered to the Los Gatos cemetery.

The day I buried my baby was cold. I wore Tyler’s suit jacket over the only plain, non-maternity skirt that fit in my closet. (Because as much as burying your baby sucks, it sucks even more to still look and feel and wish you were pregnant while doing so.)

I remember so vividly when Tyler carried her tiny casket from the hearse and placed it on the grave site. So tiny, so light, so unfair was that box. When you can carry your dead baby in a box as small as that, you too will feel they were too young, too small to die. Inside that box was a body that was too small to hold any memories or life experiences at all.

Forgive me my dear Amelia, for longing to have you with me, for I do know that tiny body of yours is where it should be. Your bright spirit is alive and thriving. I hope you are guiding our family from way up high.