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writings about
walking around
,
the prom
,
and
moving forward
.
You are buried in a tiny fraction of a plot in Maryland. I'm sorry that I've never visted. I'm sorry that I haven't even bought you a headstone yet. When I think about it I keep meaning to; I rarely think about it, though. I never knew exactly when you died but I can't even remember when you were born and I first saw you. I'm sorry that I've forgotten about you most of the time.

You didn't seem fully real to me for a long time. Not while you gestated and not when I learned you had died a week before. Not until your stillbirth was induced and I saw you there, entirely real and minutely formed. I thought about you then, but mostly I was thinking of your mother. Later, after all the arrangements had been made and life resumed I stopped thinking about you. I only remember you now when driving past your cemetary, or today when I googled an old classmate and landed instead on a page full of remembrances for stillborn babies.

I'm sorry that I can't remember your birthdate and I haven't been by to pay my respects or shown respect to your final resting place. I'm going to get on that headstone thing, really. I found a nice angel statue online and, unless your mother objects, I'll order it and we can go out and install it some weekend.
Father, 02/23/06

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