I have a box.
It’s satin like and kind of a greenish blue hue- it’s tied with a bow.
It sits in my closet up high on a shelf that I can barely reach on my tippy toes.
I like it that way. I know it’s there but I have not opened it in years.
It’s not as painful, but still so emotional.
I opened it up when given to me but then not again for two years.

I was never ready.

I knew once I opened it a flood of tears were to follow. And I didn’t need any more reminders .I lived with the pain daily.

It has been 16 years since I was given the box .
It is filled with a hospital band, a small lock of hair, a card filled with condolences from the nurses and a hand knitted baby blanket that swaddled him- the same blanket I held him in as I said goodbye.
My oldest doesn’t even know about the box. The one that holds his twin brothers only belongings. The only physical things that tie me to my first born.
He was my baby.
I held those babies inside of me for 27 weeks
6 days
20 hours

My twin boys.

For years it was so hard to see other sets of twins.
Growing and thriving.
Sharing a bond.
That was supposed to be my boys.
Our life.

Years have passed.
My heart ache is not as raw.
But every year- on world prematurity day
I miss my first born
Yet honor his surviving twin

The box is all I have left