September, I breathed. So far away. A word filled with hope. With longing. With promises for a future filled with life.

I imagined the day. The treetops tinged with fire and gold. Warm. A breeze. A baby in my arms.

I imagined a son. From the beginning, I knew I would have a son. I imagined him just like his daddy. Full of life and energy. Adventurous. Wild. Risk-taking.

I wondered how I would be as a mom. Would I let him take risks? Let him become a man like he should be? Would I be afraid for him and keep him my little boy forever? I knew he would be sensitive and confident.

I had so many, many dreams.

I would run my hands over the nightgowns my mom bought. I could almost feel the warmth and soft weight of a child. I was never bored. My son was always with me. Reminding me he was there and growing. Kicking so much. I loved watching the bumps and kicks bounce in my stomach.

I never imagined that I would spend today outside, at a cemetery. I never imagined that today would come and I would be just as thin as I was a year ago. That I would fight to keep the tears at bay. That I would listen to my husband read to my son who was buried a few feet beneath us.

I never imagined that the first balloons we bought our boy we would have to let go.

We wrote letters to our son and tied them to the balloon strings. I think our sorrow weighed the balloons down. They just hung in the air, hesitating. Did they really want to fly away? I had pictured them being torn out of our hands, whipped up by the wind into specks in the sky. But the balloons just hovered and then went right for the trees. Both our balloons are still in the branches overlooking our son's grave.