Our local football club had a fireworks display, which we walked down to watch. I remember so distinctly cuddling my bump as the fireworks went off and we chomped toffee apples. By this time we knew that our baby had a very poorly heart. Our best case scenario for the next year was that he'd make it to 9 months or so before having the operation to save him, which itself had a hefty chance of killing him. As I watched the fireworks and he jiggled around at the bangs and the tasty toffee I wondered if he'd be around to see his first bonfire night outside next year. Maybe we'd be by his side in hospital, maybe he'd be better by then and sitting right here with us watching the fireworks with wide little eyes in which I'd see the reflections of the fireworks, or maybe he wouldn't have made it through his operation. I was pleased that he was getting the bonfire night he might not get to see next year, but I secretly shed a small tear under the cover of the dark.
What I never imagined is that 7 weeks later we'd find he'd passed away before they ever got a chance to mend him, before we'd even had the chance to meet him, or just once to see those twinkling little eyes.
Tonight is bonfire night, my partner and I will be off to watch the same firework display in a few hours. I am so grateful for the memories I have of last bonfire night, the one we got to spend with our little boy. This year we'll be on our own, except for the happy little presence that will always be with us, sitting on our shoulders and giggling.