Baggage

I don't want a garden stake with his name on it.
I don't want C.T. to attend a five-day grief camp for bereaved children. 
I don't want to be part of this support group or the bereavement conference this week.
I don't want to break down, seethe with pain and anger, when I hear about a new baby, the blessed parents, the everyone is doing fine.
I don't want a blog dedicated to grieving his death.   
I don't want to avoid crowds, places where I'll be bombarded by happiness and blissful innocence.
I don't want to dust around the urn that holds his ashes, on our dresser. 
I don't want memorial giraffes all over my home.
I don't want it to hurt daily, when I run into school parents who never made the effort to acknowledge his life, our loss. 
I don't want to dread the holidays, to explain why it doesn't feel right to celebrate. 
I don't want to hear that it's been years since the NICU has lost a baby as strong as Zachary, that the incidence of infection in their unit is remarkably low. 

I don't want to feel resentful of other peoples' birthdays, as he will never celebrate any of his own.

I don't want it to hurt to hear about the adventures, the joys, the frustrations, the everyday tedium of others.

I don't want to think about starting a foundation, about what good can come, in his memory.

I don't want to be haunted by mistakes in his care, by the infection he acquired under their care, by my own guilt, by the images of his suffering.

I don't want to face the room full of his belongings, things that transferred ownership from C.T. the minute I began curating them in early November. 
I don't want (me or B or C.T.) to be the elephant in the room. 
I don't want everything about him, all of our experiences with him, to be over, sealed in the past, in those two weeks.
 

I want Zachary. 
 

Not these sickening consolation prizes.  Not this baggage.