“Those are just mums. Here, we have some nicer flowers in this corner. Much more festive.”

My hand hovers over the purple flowers in the glass case. Just mums. The world goes black for a second while I struggle to remember how to breathe. How can I tell her what mums mean to me? How can I say they are the birth flower of the baby I held lifeless in my arms? How can I express the joy I felt at unexpectedly seeing them out of season, like a gift from my son, a soft reminder that his presence, his love, never fades?

I focus deliberately on the blooms in front of me, taking in their oblong petals, their sturdy stems. Just mums. Nothing festive. Just another casual flower, brushed aside in favor of fancier, flashy arrangements. I think of all the casual days I could have had with my son. Not the fancy ones, not the flashy high school and college graduations. Not even the wedding we will never attend. I imagine a trip to the grocery store with a sticky brown hand resting in mine. I picture him darting down the pasta aisle, curls bouncing over his dark eyes as he happily grabs the mac n’ cheese. “Please mama, can’t we get more? I loooooove it!” I pretend to consider, watching the hopefulness in his eyes before nodding and playfully winking. He gives a little jump of joy, then deposits the blue box in the cart before dashing off in search of his next culinary treasure. Just an ordinary day. Any random Tuesday at the store with my son. Any casual, taken for granted moment.

Just mums.

Just a trip to the grocery store.

Just a walk home from school.

Just an argument over cleaning the playroom.

Just another request for a glass of water, as bedtime drags on and on…and on.

Just everyday life.

We mark the milestones, the birthdays, the missed first days of school, the graduations we imagine our babies walking in. We mark the anniversaries, feeling a little more like we can ask for help when the hurt is obvious. We mark the big occasions, but we suffer in silence through the ‘justs,’ through the million tiny papercuts that assail our souls. In those moments, we breathe in the loss, holding it tight until our chests almost burst before finally exhaling our way back to the present. Breathe in loss, breathe out love. Breathe in. Breathe out. Loss and love mingling into one deep ache through our being.

I stare at the mums in silence, appreciating their everyday nature a little more. It is not the big days we miss the most when we bury our babies. We miss Christmas, Halloween, and baseball championships yes, but we also miss Sunday pancakes and Friday Uno games. We miss it all. And I suppose that is the point. We wanted it all, we imagined it all. And all of it was taken. My eyes focus on the woman helping me. Just a girl really, barely out of her teens. How can I explain to her that mums are the perfect flower, that they embody casual, everyday love? That their rugged exterior perfectly portrays the enduring power of a parent’s love - beautiful yes, but moreover defined by their sturdy, hearty nature. How can I tell her of buying birth flowers instead of grocery store treats, of holding a love that has no place to go? In that moment, I can’t. Instead I reach for the flowers, casually remark, ‘but these are just perfect’ and calmly walk away. Breathe in loss. Breathe out love. Everyday. 

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, a dedicated 501(c)(3) non-profit, offers families experiencing pregnancy and infant loss with complimentary remembrance portraits, capturing precious moments with their babies. Your generous donation can help us extend this heartfelt service to more families in need. Please consider supporting us here.