Glass in the Bed

Last night I dreamt there was glass in our bed. And that my mother had been in the bed and had somehow escaped without getting cut by the glass, but now we were in the bed and I was very worried, because I knew the glass was in here with us, and I was just waiting for it to cut us.

We made the decision around Hanukkah time to buy a beautiful double frame, put a picture of Archer and a picture of Pedro in it, and place in on the dresser in our bedroom. It has been a mixed blessing. The whole pregnancy was beginning to seem like a dream, like something that must not have really happened, and so seeing their beautiful selves, their sweet little faces, has brought it back home to us that they are real, that we really did have two sons.

But every time I walk through the bedroom and pass their pictures, from the moment I wake up until the moment we turn out the lights, I utter two phrases as I pass:

"I love you"

and, "I'm so sorry".

Seeing them makes me feel oh so strongly what we've lost. All the potential these two little lads had in them, with their long limbs and their big, perfect feet. Bruno's swarthiness reflected in Pedro's dark crown, and Archer's pale and worried brow: my side of the family.

We're not sure whether the pictures can stay. Each of us has gotten lost, gotten stuck just standing in front of the frame, staring at the two little bodies. It's hard to forgive ourselves, forgive the Universe, to just keep moving. And we're both afraid of the moment when we become used to the picture, when we walk by without noticing, without acknowledging.

We're waiting for the right moment to put it away. A moment of pause, when both of us feel ready, to gently put the picture away, for now, knowing we can take them out when we want to, when we need to. We haven't found that moment yet, so for now I keep chanting, I love you; I'm so sorry.

And apparently my dream self has figured out that no matter when I put the double frame away, I will always be aware of the glass in the bed.