I've been thinking a lot about Will lately, the thoughts spurred on by the absolute joy brought on by the time I get to spend with his brother, Edward. There are many times that I'll be sprawled on the floor next to Edward while he bats at the various toys that hang over him on his playmat, and look up at the photo we have of Will on a bookshelf in the living room. There they are, my two boys, one playing rambunctiously, and the other who will never get that chance. The result is always an oddly intermingled feeling of joy and sorrow.

I wish so much that Will was here with us, that he could be here on the floor, playing with me and his younger brother. Of course, we'll never get that chance. But that doesn't mean Will is any less with us. I talk to Edward about his brother quite often, telling him about how strong and brave he was, about how his big brother is watching out for him. Will's books are now Ed's books, and every time I read Ed "Two Little Trains" or "Guess How Much I Love You," I think of sitting at Will's bedside reading to him in the hope that it would be calming enough to raise his oxygen saturations. Any time I get frustrated when Ed gets fussy and I can't seem to console him, I need to think of those times with is brother to remember what true frustration feels like.

It's difficult sometimes seeing Ed and thinking about all of the things Will never will get to do. Mary and I always dreamed of being able to bring Will home and play with him like this, to have him to care for without the need for 24-hour nursing assistance. It's amazing how easily our lives have adapted to Ed's needs, but knowing what was taken away from us with Will's passing, we don't take anything for granted.

This past month we've been involved in a lot of things that bring Will to mind -- the March of Dimes Walk America, a walk for the Pre-eclampsia Foundation and a banquet to recognize perinatal specialists last week -- but it is the time I spend with Edward, watching him play, that make me miss Will the most.