In her post Before, and after Gwendomama writes of a brain vacation--one of those rare, gifted moments of visitation and vivid, all-senses memory--and the abruptness of the brain returning to duty. By sharing with us her Elijah she gives us a dose of our own, and we thank her for it, and we understand.

For a moment, he was never gone, there was no 'before'. There was no 'after'. There was only Elijah. He was just here. In my arms. He was mine; he always had been. All of his cedary sweet milky vanilla gorgeous cheeky delicious chunky ethereal baby awesomeness was mine.

For a moment I was allowed the thrill of him, the thrill of being his mother. The incredible 'I'm not worthy' feeling as I gazed at this beautiful creature and breathed him in. The pride. For a moment I felt joy when I looked down at my son. For a moment I felt the love gushing out of me, the dam had broken, it all rushed straight into my son while I watched it pour all over him. I could not stop it; it all was his and there he was, in my arms, absorbing every single drop.

In her post Happy-sad, Carol writes of the strange realization that life has become some semblance of ordinary again, five years after the stillbirth of her daughter Charlotte. She speaks of occupying her skin, of a moment of lone reflection without feeling drowned in memory, of feeling peaceful as mother to the two children at her side.

Four years later, I am here in a much more comfortable place, a place where I admit that yes, I am grieving, but I am also human: and sometimes, it feels nice to go first.

To eat when I am hungry, to think for a few minutes without first thinking about somebody else. To be out in the hot, night air, and to walk slowly, and to not worry about whether I was moving too fast, or too slowly, or if there was going to be traffic on the way home. ... and try to make me hold my chin up like a normal person, not like a grieving, slightly manic babylost mama who is pretty sure she is broken and her two living children are some sort of fluke.

In her post Never Enough Time, Lori of Losses and Gains weaves a story of loss across generations, of time, of hard-won wisdom, and of course, of love.

Nana noticed me looking at the photo and she said quietly, "That little boy died."  I nodded and answered gently, "I know, Nana.  I'm so sorry." Because of course while that little boy didn't really die, but instead the grown man that he became, I knew to her that it didn't feel that way at all.

It didn't feel like her son of nearly 70 years died, but in fact that little sunny faced boy she still carried with her deep in the recesses of her heart and memory. No matter how old he was, he still wasn't supposed to die first. It still wasn't enough time.