An empty room

I am a prolific knitter, crocheter, and spinner. My large stash of yarn and fiber is stacked nice and neat in what was our extra closet. It just happens that the extra closet is in the room that I haven't opened for the past week and a half. It was the room that was supposed to belong to our son.

For the first time, today, I opened the door. The hand-me-down strollers are still sitting in the corner, where I saw my husband run up and stash them when I was still in shock, lying in bed and unable to so much as move from despair. So is the pile of baby books so helpfully provided by my and his mothers, and the half dozen baby outfits that his mother picked up on sale at Kohls and just had to get for her first grandchild. So also hangs the gift I got for my husband for Valentine's Day - a onesie with the Duke logo on it, so our child would proudly display his school spirit when he inevitably got dragged to that first basketball game.

I could deal with all of that. Even the onesie. I know logically that we have an excellent chance of being able to conceive again and carry to term. We have no known genetic or hormonal issues that might have caused a miscarriage. We have an excellent chance of being able to use all of the items in that room in the next two years, less with any luck.

But then I opened the closet and in searching for a particular skein of yarn, I found his socks.

They were an impulse purchase at Target, just a couple of weeks after I found out I was pregnant with him. They were selling off all of their baby holiday socks, as it was the end of January. Hidden in the pile were a pair of teensy tiny white socks with blue toes and heels, with little puppies embroidered on them. They were some ridiculously cheap price on clearance, less than a quarter, and they were my first baby purchase.

I held the socks and sobbed. I never thought such a tiny object would mean so much to me. They were just a pair of socks that cost barely more than a few pennies, and yet they meant so much to me. Those little socks were tucked away in my purse at my first ultrasound, when I saw his little heart beating.

I don't think those little socks can ever belong to anybody else. They're his, and noone else's. I couldn't leave them packed away in the closet, so I moved them, stashing them away in my side table in the bedroom, so I'll always know just where they are. They shouldn't mean so much, but they do.