A memory box, most new mother’s create a memory box for months and even years. But for some Mother’s a memory box is something very different, it’s filled with memories from only one day or several, it might be filled with birth certificates, death certificates and other little bits and bobs. You see my Memory box has everything and anything that was important when Ryker was born.
I have all my ultrasound disks/pictures, and even his portrait’s, I even have Ryker’s one and only outfit, with his tiny singlet and tiny socks. I have all my paperwork from when Ryker was born, I even have the autopsy results in there and his official birth certificate. I have a special candle that will never get lit, I have forget me not seeds that will never get planted.
In my memory box I have all the cards we received from friends and family over the country stored in a special envelope. I have pressed flowers from all the flowers we received (I never want flowers sent to my house again, I could smell them for weeks after they all died), I have Ryker’s funeral receipt (Baby funeral’s aren’t as cheap as you think they would be).
There’s a lock of his golden hair, mine and his hospital tag’s, one too bog and one too small. The measuring tap that the midwife used to measure my little sweet boy (50cm on the dot), his head circumference (33 cm), and a little note with how much he weighed ( 3kg and 210g), I even have one of his CTG scans when his heart beat was beautiful and strong. I have a flannel he will never use.
There’s a blue balloon with a picture of Ryker from when we did our balloon release at the end of the funeral. Then there’s the certificates for his urn and cremation. Booklets on grief, and my hand written letters, that will never get posted. This is my memory box, for when days get to hard, all I have to do is open it and remember, the smell of his hair, the smell of his skin (Tim to this day says he smelt like ham), and the weight of holding my baby. I don’t need to remember the stiffness of the first night, I don’t need to remember the darkness of his lips, and I try not to remember the tubes down his throat. Or the little bit of blood that crept down his nose when you moved him to fast.
I remember how much he actually looked like my niece, a spitting image, just she was dark (dark hair and dark eyes), while he was light (golden hair and the midwife said he had blue eyes).
I try not to remember the heart break I went through when we said our final goodbyes at the hospital. I try not to remember when I awoke from surgery to the new’s my son never made it. I hate knowing everything that remains of my son, is in a little urn. I look at the clock at 4:55pm every Monday and dream that Ryker was another week older. I may not try to remember all these little pieces, but they are what stick the most.