The day we got home from the hospital, I went upstairs and opened the door to Ryan's room. How many times had I imagined bringing him home from the hospital? How many times had I imagined moments with him in this room?
From that day on, the door to his nursery needed to be open. Whenever we get home from work or an errand, I almost always head right upstairs to make sure it is so.
At some point in September, the open door policy evolved into an open curtains policy, too. So now, I wake up in the morning, and an integral part of my routine has become my quick little moment in his room, opening the blinds.
I'm sure there's a million metaphors for this simple little action. Letting the light shine in through the darkness. Greeting a new day. Opening the window of possibility.
But that's not it.
I open his curtains because I don't want his room to be this dark, sad place. I spent hours upon hours planning and putting this space together. Not so it could sit in darkness. A tomb of despair for the baby who didn't come home. I open the curtains to let it be the bright, happy space it was supposed to be.
Because there's a part of me that hopes Ryan's little spirit lives in here sometimes. And I want it to be exactly what I hoped it would be for him.