We count by days for our pregnancies, and how old our infants are. Somewhere deep inside, your heart also keeps count when you lose a vital piece of it. Today it will be 3,000 days since you left this earth. It often makes me wonder how many more thousands I have before I see you. It seems like a significant number, doesn’t it? 3000 days without my baby. A bit over 8 years has gone by. So much time, and yet I still can’t delete your phone number. I still wake up sometimes and think you’re still here. I still mistakenly call one of your brothers by your name. I still miss you desperately. You filled a spot in my life that can never be replaced. Parents of multiple children may be able to understand this. How each one fills a void you never knew you possessed. As sad as that seems, I welcome the feeling. Obviously I wish you were here, but I wouldn’t want anyone else filling your shoes. I would rather the ache. These days grief sits with me like an old friend. Most of the time we coexist peacefully. I even love the beautiful ways she prods me to remember you. Most of the time, these days, they’re accompanied by a fondness. But every once in awhile grief is ugly and harsh. It feels inhumane. Yet, even on those days we reconcile. I let her out, and feel the loss. I lament and cry. I visit your best memories and let it all in. And when we’re done I have learned to fold her back up, nice and neat, and put her away for a time. I can not allow her to be in control all the time. Your brothers and sister need me to be whole, so I try not to allow grief to overstay her welcome.