My moon

photo by  Jessica Neuwerth

You are my sunshine baby, love.
You are my sunshine
Liam is my moon.

(Ben smiles. He always smiles when we imagine Liam.)

Liam is my moon.
When we are asleep
He whispers to me
Not with words, feelings, hello through the veil
But with a distant hum
Like how the moon pulls the tides—
And you can’t see the pull—
Only the water moving here and there.
That is how you know. The moon.
I am his mother.
I am the water.
When clouds or murk or snow block the moon
There is still the pull.

The moon does not say Ta-da! like the sun
Or make warm spots for cats
Or make pretty things and tomatoes grow
Or wake up hungry fish and hatch their bug dinner.
The moon is small sometimes, a sliver, barely
Far away,
Hidden a lot.
Every now and then we go into the dark
Everything shimmers and we say, softly:
Oooh, look.
And everyone gets quiet, shushed, standing in the shimmer.

You are my sunshine baby, love.
You are my sunshine.
Liam is my moon.

If you have young people in your life—other children, nieces or nephews—what do you say to explain the loss of your child or children? I've found that crafting a narrative that keeps Liam in his twin's life is just as much a narrative for me. Have you found the same? How has childlike imagining helped you to shape your sense of your missing son or daughter?