I lost my child today. I didn't cry. Not a tear left my eyes, not a wrinkle on my face, yet I felt dry. I felt dirty I felt sick, but I didn't feel sad, I just felt empty. That night me and my husband sat down and ate dinner, a dark room illuminated by a singular flickering candle. The food was dry, flavorless. I hadn't tried to cook well anyways, but as I tipped it through my teeth I regretted the lack of effort. My husband sat parallel, his face in his hands he didn't look parallel. Tears soaked his red cheeks, his wrists and formed puddles by his elbows where they bent, and wept. I stared at him, caressing his soft shoulders with my thumbs yet all I felt was rough, and still not one tear was pulled from my eyes. That night as I stared holes through my ceiling; my organs turned to pudding and it felt like paralysis. I lay there, whole body numb and fingers twitching. All I could think about was how you would feel curled against me, or tugging on my sleeve when you have a nightmare. Brushing my hair from my face, saying I was the most beautiful woman in the world. I would say that's just a symptom of raising the best kid in the world, and you would hug me so tight I thought I'd turn blue. Your warmth had faded into a cold, vast presence of your memory. My husband slept in a bed of tears, all drying into a mess of what we could only explain as a tragedy. Almost a year later, me and my husband live in that same house. We continue to live our life but you haven't left our mind once. I still hadn't cried, so I began to think I could move on, but there was just something wrong. It was always too still; too quiet. I always wanted you to quiet down, but this; this is too quiet.  I wanted it at a simmering low hum, but nothing at all hurts me more then if you screamed in my ears. But that craving for control is what took you away in the first place. I made you a cake yesterday, just as you liked it. Strawberry frosting, vanilla cake and sprinkles. I put seven candles as if you were to blow them out, as if you were to graduate 6. Selfishly, I blew out the candles, and wished for something that surprised me. I wished for life, and for purpose. I wished for a reason to get up in the morning, a will to resist standing in the doorway to your room, and permission to feel this way. And as all the flames simultaneously vanished, I stared at the happy birthday message written in sweet strawberry delight and began to cry.