Today was when Nicholas and Zachary were due to be born. They would be seven years old.
For me, rather than a brutal day of mourning, today marks the easing of the sadness. Because they were twins, because I was older and high risk, it’s incredibly unlikely that I would have lasted for the forty full weeks of pregnancy. It’s likely they would have actually been born earlier, sometime in late January to mid February.
My grief is less active on this anniversary (unlike the anniversary of their deaths). Instead, starting in February, I just find myself more irritable and angry than usual. I’m less tolerant, I get more stressed, and everything just feels closer to the bone than usual. It always takes me a week or two to remember why.
It’s harder and harder for me to imagine them. My image of them stops around two or three years old. The one image I have in my head is this: two little boys bent down in the grass studying something while I watch from a short distance away. I can see the back of their heads with the sun shining on their hair, their little butts squatting down so much they brush the grass.
Sometimes when I look at Tori I can picture their faces. But not often. It’s hard to imagine their faces. This makes me incredibly sad.
I miss them, still, all these years later.
Nicholas and Zachary, you were loved, and you are missed.