I am not a seamstress. At 35 years old, I still often ask my dad to iron my dresses for special occasions and my mom still hems new pants that are too long for my five foot frame.

 —

But today I began sewing patches.

 —

About this time last year, I was told that my only child was terminally ill. I spent the next five months fighting to save his life. When I couldn’t, I was left with a million tiny holes in my shattered, empty heart.

 —

Those holes allowed the pain to leak into my soul. Without the barrier of the once strong walls, the grief poured out in tears, in rage, despair and fear. I filled them temporarily with conversation, busy work, social activity. But the sediment settled and the holes emptied – dark, cold and hollow.

 —

But I think I’ve found a way, finally, to seal the leaks and conquer the holes.

 —

Maybe they can’t be filled. But maybe they’re supposed to be empty. Maybe those holes create a foundation that is different from the one before. A remodel of sorts. One that weaves together the values of a lifetime and the meaning of true, unconditional love.

 —

So, I am done trying to fill the holes in my heart. Instead, I am going to patch them. I will keep them from leaking sadness, fear and regret. I am going to use their foundation for strength moving forward.

 —

My first patch will be made of music. Each time I hear a melody, I will smile. I will sing along to familiar lyrics and I will bounce in my seat as my three-year-old once did. And he will be watching as his mommy sways to his favorite rhythm and one hole slowly closes.

 —

I will patch the next hole with gratitude. Gratitude for the three years I had with my sweet boy and thankfulness that I got to be his mom. That patch might even cover three or four holes, because I am so grateful that baby was mine.

 —

Every patch I sew will be created from memories of our happiest times and traditions born from our new normal.

 —

My heart will never be quite whole, but in time, it will be a beautiful work of art.