Dear Junebug,

I guess I don’t have to pretend that you’re reading this in the future anymore, since if you are in fact reading this I’d imagine you are doing it right this second in heaven.

Words cannot express how we feel right now. We are angry you left us . . . we are deeply sad that we will never hold you in our arms . . . we are scared this will happen again . . . we are relieved this happened now, if it was going to happen, and not in a week, or a month, or a year . . . Overall, we are emptier.

Last night we burned the sonogram from a few weeks ago (the one and only time we heard your heart beat), and also most of the things we bought you over the past couple of months. We will sprinkle some of the ashes in Yosemite this weekend as a memorial. However, I did save one of your blankets from the patio bonfire. It is safe with me. I wanted something to remember you by, even if we barely got to know each other.

Of course, remembering you is easy. Every time I see a stroller, or a diaper commercial, or a Babys-R-Us store I think of you. And unfortunately I never realized how many babies there are in the world, and how evidence of their existence is ubiquitous and inescapable, until we lost ours.

Please know that although you died, our dream to have a child has not. We want to try again in a few months, even at the risk of opening ourselves up to more heartbreak and disappointment. But rest assured that you were not a setback, or a delay, or a false hope. You were briefly, gloriously, and unapologetically our baby. 

Tomorrow morning we leave for Yosemite. Your mother and I need to clear our heads, say goodbye, and find as many reasons as we can to hope for the future. 

“Say goodbye. . .” I never thought that just imagining those words together would make me cry.

In closing, I will keep this blog up as a kind of anonymous memorial to you, our anonymous baby, the elusive Junebug. It will remain short, just like your life, forever. But while you won’t be able to read this blog in twenty years and laugh at how stupid your dad used to be (or is), it may prove useful someday if we ever do have a baby, and that baby grows up to conceive a baby of its own before suddenly and inexplicably losing it. As when my mom told me about her own miscarriage earlier today, I will send my future baby a link to this blog. 

Anyway, I have to go help your mother. She still isn’t feeling well. I hope she knows how much I love her. 

Goodbye, Junebug. I hope we meet again someday.

Love, Dad