And I did not do it in 2019 and I did not do it in 2020 and I did not do it on any of the anniversaries, and we have never marked them.
Six years, and the only reason I know her name is that a mark on another baby’s shoulder forced it out of him at half past four in the morning.
The envelope.
They gave us one.
Photographs. They do it as a matter of course, and it is kind, and it went into my bag at St Jerome’s on the fifteenth of March, 2019, and I brought it home.
And it is in the bottom of the wardrobe in the back bedroom, in a shoebox with the hospital paperwork.
And I have never opened it.
And I knew exactly where it was, the entire time, through two house moves.
I have moved that box myself. Twice. It went in the car with me rather than in the van, both times, which is a thing I have never explained to anybody including myself.
