Closing the Chest

When we left the hospital in Oregon, we had a cardboard box used to hold breast milk bottles filled with our last tangible memories of our sons: the baby blankets they were wrapped in, the little woven hats they wore, the diapers for preemies, which hung off our teeny tiny pre-preemies. The stretchy beaded ring Bruno bought for me to wear when I became too swollen to wear my wedding bands. Two little pandas my Mom got to decorate the hospital room. Cards and cards and cards, sent to cheer us on during our stay and then accompanying flowers to acknowledge our loss. Hand prints and foot prints of our darlings, tucked into paper boxes given to us by the hospital, a card signed by all the hospital staff who helped us through this time, MIT baby blankets we'd optimistically ordered while in the hospital, certificates of baptism and blessing, the wrist tags they'd worn identifying them as ours, ultrasound pictures of them along the way, photos taken the day of their birth and death, and finally the tiny sage colored urn, decorated with small enameled flowers that holds the remains of our sons.

It's been sitting in the closet in that cardboard breast milk box since we got home, and periodically we take it down and go through the contents, each time commenting that we need to get something beautiful to replace the cardboard, but knowing we didn't have the heart or stomach to shop for it.

So we passed the task on to my wondrous Momma. Who has been culling the antique shops of the area, looking for such an item, guessing at our taste and at the dimensions we need to house this love and this pain. Patiently, she has bought and returned offerings deemed by us to be too big or too small, too plain or too or ornate or just not us. Or perhaps we just weren't ready.

Yesterday afternoon, hours before 2009 drew to a close, my wondrous Momma showed up at our door with a new candidate. She put it on our table, took a step back and started in with her usually disclaimers about how she could return it if it wasn't.... Bruno and I didn't even have to confer with each other. It was perfect. It was exactly what we would have picked if we had been able to do this task ourselves. Hugs, tears, thanks, and wondrous Momma was off, task completed.

Now it was our turn. Our selection stood on our table for several more hours as we continued our lives around it, knowing it was there, but not quite ready to deal with it. As the sun set, we took the new, handsome but simple, small, dark-wood chest, with its subtle metal clasps and details, into the bedroom, and took out the cardboard breast milk box for the last time. Piece by piece, we transferred our memories, looking at each card, remembering the love and support Archer and Pedro generated in the world. We looked at their little selves, captured on camera by our loving nurse, and we cried, so sad that we couldn't bring them safely into this world. Piece by piece, we transferred them to their new home, the discrepancy between this and what we wanted to offer them not lost on us.

And then we were done. And we closed the chest. Its not locked and we can open it whenever we want, but our boys and their memories now rest in a place of beauty, selected lovingly, respectfully, by family.

And now it is 2010.

Bruno, sentimental heart that he is, couldn't yet recycle the breast milk box; it still sits in the corner of our room. We'll see how long it takes him to let go of that.