And then one day, you’re on a crowded bus, hugging your duffle bag to your chest because all the seats are full, and the song your brother wrote for two special babies comes onto your mp3 player, and all you can do is let the tears flow even though you have no kleenex to wipe them and people are glancing at you and wondering if they should intrude or leave you all alone in your weepiness.

All you can think about is that season of loss before your particular verse of that song had any inspiration to exist. When you waited for weeks in the hospital, hoping against hope that your little one would see the light of day. And then living through that horrible, horrible moment when the downfallen look on your doctor’s face as he looked at the ultrasound told the story you didn’t want to hear. Followed by the phone call to your husband at work, when he answered the phone so cheerily and you had to tell him. The. baby. is. dead.

And the most vivid memory the song evokes is that day you first heard the song in your living room and you clung to your sister-in-law in your shared loss and longed for the day when the skies seemed a little more blue for both of you and hope peeked in your window to lighten the shadows of grief and pain.

And those thoughts can only lead you to one place. Jack.

And you pray through your tears, with every ounce of earnestness you can muster, “please PLEASE don’t let there be another verse to that song.”

And you know without a doubt that if falling to your knees on that bus full of people meant that the prayer had any more power, you would do it in an instant.

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