This is Viggo's old nursery, now a prayer and meditation room.


When we brought Viggo home, his room became a sacred space. Upon entering, more than a few guests commented on the feeling that they were on holy ground. Perhaps because Viggo was so generous, so accepting of all who wished to hold him in their arms. In return, he would you in his gaze--the most patient, accepting, loving gaze. The room held, and still holds, a palpably peaceful energy.


Somehow, on the day after Viggo's memorial service, and with the help of my grandmother (who lost two sons in the span of a week, one of them my Dad) and my Aunt Mel (whose husband was the other son who died a week after my Dad), we dismantled his nursery and transformed it into a different kind of sacred space.


I was worrying that morning about how the kids would react, about whether I could manage it, about what we were going to do with all the medical and baby supplies. And then a kind acquaintance showed up, unbidden, and offered to take everything off my hands that very day and handle distribution to those who most needed it.


And so, with the wind at my back, I took each child to the nursery, one at a time. We lit incense and talked about our memories in the nursery with Viggo. They were both very happy that this would be a quiet place for them to come anytime they wish, and that we would keep Viggo's special items here so that they could hold them whenever they want. Even my four-year-old, who struggles mightily with any form of change (including rearranging furniture), was at peace. In fact, he told someone recently that The Meditation Room is his favorite room in the house.


In the mornings when I wake, I am drawn to this room. I am drawn to the sunrise visible through the window. I am drawn into my memories of watching sunrises with Viggo in the rocking chair, as Winter turned to Spring, and Spring to Summer.


I wish for just one more sunrise with him.


I grieve the finality of his absence. I journal, I weep, I pray.


I connect with him here.


Today, Viggo would have been 7 months old. I wish I could make a big fuss in the voice I used for him, that momma-adores-you-singsong-voice that would have cooed at how big he was getting, would have cajoled him for a smile, would have watched with joy as his gaze met mine, sapphire eyes twinkling, head moving excitedly back and forth. I wish the big kids could argue about which dessert to get to celebrate his 7 months. I wish we could sing Happy Birthday again.

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