In the months after Nicolas died, I scoured the Internet for information: medical information on the cause of his death, statistical information on how many babies die in this way, grief information on what to expect next, and support information on how to live without my son. I became intimate with a world I never knew existed, a world of mothers, fathers, grandparents and siblings struggling with the impossible loss of a child. I spent countless nights until four in the morning reading stories of women like me – women who couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything but read stories of women like them. I noticed a common theme: many mothers referred to their children as “angels,” especially when their children died as infants or toddlers. Whether Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Jewish, Atheist or Agnostic, it didn’t seem to matter.

I resisted the temptation to give Nicolas this name. I imagined myself years from now, an old woman, no living children, no grandchildren, just a curio cabinet full of winged figurines supplicating in the most uncomfortable positions. It seemed too easy, too obvious, to call my infant son an angel. Yet, I was at a loss for what else to call him. I’m not talking about his given name; I am talking about a metaphor for my dead baby that softens the shocking sound of “my dead baby.” Something that helps me cope with his unfair and unimaginable death. “Angel” has become my cushion.

I now accept and even embrace my chosen metaphor for Nicolas. Nicolas was as close to perfection as is possible. When he was first born, I was absorbed with his silent, gentle presence. I felt the hush of the sacred in the delivery room. I hesitated to touch him for fear of disturbing his purity. Nicolas did not live long enough to keep me up all night with his colic, throw his Cheerios on the carpet, play his music too loud, or put a dent in my car the first time I let him drive it. He did not live long enough to secure his place amongst the fallen ranks of humanity like the rest of us. Nicolas slipped silently into this world from a place of perfection, lingered a moment, and then slipped silently back into the dark. For me, no other word but “angel” can describe Nicolas.

I don’t own a curio cabinet or a porcelain angel – not yet.