Last week, it snowed. Peaceful flakes floated from on high, creating a thick blanket across the backyard. The tree branches hung a bit lower, snuggled beneath the weight. Happy to be dormant.

I know the feeling.

The white covering reminds me of you, and I pull your memories a bit closer. Warmth rushes over me. I could watch the snow fall for hours.

You were my blizzard baby. My gentle fury. My undoing.

Nothing about you went as planned, but everything turned out good somehow. Broken, yes—but in the best of ways. Even today, on the day you would have turned nine, I waffle in between wanting you here but holding on to what I have.

On what has become your birthday tradition, we celebrate with cupcakes and baked potatoes—tiny vestiges of who you were. Or maybe who you might have been. Either way, the day wouldn’t be right without them. Dad and I will gather your brothers at the kitchen table and recall the day you were born—our only day with you.

I like to think God lets you peak in, your nose pressed up against heaven’s two-way mirror. How I wish I could see you back.

We have so many questions. Your brothers ask them every year.

What would Carter look like?
Is he still a baby?
What is he doing in heaven?
Will we know him when we get there?

I imagine what it would be like—you here with your brothers. Instantly, I’m both joyful and terrified, my hair painted with a fresh streak of gray. Five boys is a lot of boys. But then again, what’s one more for the pile?

February 2, 2011: Me and my Carter Benjamin

No matter how hard I try to see you here with us, the image is blurry. The thing about dying young is that you left us without a lot of details. Even our best guesses don’t fill in the gaps. And the more years that pass without you, the harder it is to conjure the mirage. You will always be my wrinkly five-pound bundle. Even your brothers—including the ones who came after—call you “Baby Carter.” I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it.

It’s so easy to idolize what might have been. But the reality is that life would not have been perfect with you here. In many ways, you got the best end of the deal. On that snowy February day, you knew nothing but love. No bruised knees or broken hearts. No disappointment or doubt. You were passed from our loving arms to Another.

But still, with each flake that falls I miss you. Your absence is always here—and yet, it’s your absence that has created space for something more. Your void unraveled me in the best of ways, and I don’t want to go back to who I was.

It’s so strange to want both stories. But I’m learning I don’t have to choose between you and what grief has done in me. I can hold them both, to let the mystery pirouette in the palm of my hand.

I know all this might be a bit much for a nine-year-old boy. Maybe you have a celestial advantage. Or perhaps in heaven you’re forever sixty years old. But what I want you to know, son, today and everyday, is how deeply you’re loved and that what you gave us lives on.

Everything about you is a gift. And I am forever grateful to be your mama.

Happy birthday, sweet Carter.