I had Savannah with me along with my son. It was hard enough going to the funeral, but I had been to this place before. I had my own bittersweet tears here. I had come back for the first time to the place where I got to hold my precious baby again.
Savannah was hungry and I knew I needed to find a place to feed her. Did I dare go back to that sacred room where I held my sweet baby for the last time, with my arms now full with a warm, breathing baby?
I took courage and went to the office determined not to cry (ahem, I know I was a little delusional). Tears came anyway, as I explained my situation. "May I please sit in the room where I once held my daughter. Would you mind?"
"Which room was it?" the man asked.
"I would recognize it by sight," was my reply.
I walked down the hall, immediately recognizing the room. All the furniture was the same. All the details didn't seem any different, and yet there was something different. A certain glow was missing from the room. The anticipation of seeing my baby again wasn't there. The feeling that I had just entered a sacred, heavenly place was no longer there. It was just a room.
A weird mixture of emotion welled up inside as I struggled to keep Savannah happy enough just so I could breathe in the room again.
And then I saw the chair. The chair where I once held my baby, with a smile on my lips. With a constant desire to want to warm up her frozen skin. In that chair, I cradled, I whispered, I rocked, I cried. I then sat in the chair with my hungry, needy baby and I cradled, I whispered, I rocked, and I cried.
