My little boy

I had a dream last night.

It was my little boy, chasing after a runaway balloon across the field. And me, running and shouting after him to stop. The louder I shouted, the faster he ran. Just as he was within my reach, he disappeared.

I woke up, shaken.

As I sat in bed, hugging my knees, I tried very hard to remember the face of my child. But I couldn't. His face was distorted by images of beautiful, smiling, guggling babies. Is this what it means when someone says: Time heals? That it erases the bad memories and replaces it with something good. Something beautiful. Something that is so far removed from reality that it is wrong?

Then, I called my ex-husband.

It must have been late evening in London.

I needed someone to talk to. Someone who would understand. Someone who had felt the deep sharp cut in his heart, too. Someone whose world collapsed -- just like mine -- that fateful day.

"I dreamt of our child", I said.

Silence.

"Are you there?" I asked.

"Yes" he said, quietly.

"He was running after a balloon", I said, sobbing. "And before I could grab hold of him, he disappeared."

"It's alright" he said calmly.

"No, it's not alright, Lee. I can't even remember his face anymore". I was screaming down the phone. Hysterical. Panic rising... much like that day, 10 years ago, when my gynae looked at us and calmly told us that our baby, our firstborn, was stillborn.