I live in dread of meeting a little boy wearing a red hat at Christmas time. It’s him, my breaking heart whispers. Of course, it’s not him, but nonetheless, the memories rush back of Rory’s enormous smile, his upturned face, his chit-chat. A little red hat sitting atop a super lovable little boy, a boy who adores Christmas.

Some pictures of him sit in a particular part of my heart, and this is one of them. My heart is full of pictures of him, but some sit in this special place. When I see a little red-hatted boy, it’s curtains; it’s time to go home, close the door and breathe through to another day. This year I’m grateful for the mild temperature here in New York because most of the babies are not wearing hats, a reprieve, I think, but then there is always one little boy that sneaks through, and when I see him, my heart breaks.

I’ve learned over time to incorporate the awful sadness of missing Rory into the fabric of daily happier times, it works mostly, but oftentimes, particularly at this time of year, I choose to abandon the plan and sit with the old memories.

Missing a dead child is awful at Christmastime.

– Orlaith.