Good-bye

How to articulate the emotions of this day. I don't have the words or the manipulation of language to adequately express how this feels.
Honestly, I didn't think it would be that hard.
I was wrong.
When the alarm went off at 5:30, I knew what needed to be done. But the tears began as soon as I walked into the little boys' room and saw the three of them sleeping there, knowing it was the last time.
I painfully sorted through the clothes--this one stays, this one goes. Where are his Sunday shoes? Will he ever use them to jump to "Sunbeam" in nursery again? Not this child. What suitcase should I send? Which diaper bag? I desperately didn't want him to be a "foster" child. Foster children notoriously carry their belongings to and fro in black garbage bags. Not my child.
Then I turned to the toys--again, which to stay, which to send away. I could barely utter the question, "Where's his light saber?" to Tucker. But I couldn't send him out into the world without it.

I ended up trying to send something of each of us with him on his journey:
From Brad: his book, "Daddy Cuddles." If only I could send the real thing.
From me: his homemade Christmas pajamas, the only ones I'll ever make him.
From Heidi: Her old duffel bag with her name on it. Maybe one day he'll remember her.
From Tucker and Ben: The light saber. I couldn't send the opponents or their tickle matches.
From Lily: An orange swim noodle. Orange is her favorite color, and they spent so much time playing together in the pool.
From Micah: "Good guys"--action figures. For the many hours they spent playing together.
From Hyrum: This was the most difficult of all. I wanted Angelo to have a piece of his twin, something that really means something to Hyrum. So I sent his favorite Spiderman shirt, the one Hyrum would never let anyone else wear. Maybe he'll remember Hyrum when he wears it.
From all of us: two family photos, the photo from my blog header, and this one, the one I received for Mother's Day this year:Time passed, and CPS was late, as usual. I had to send a seventeen-year-old out the door sobbing, a nine-year-old left broken-hearted that he wouldn't hug her goodbye, and I watched as my two-year-old kissed and hugged and waved as he was strapped in the car seat, saying, "Bye, Hy-um." And then they drove away.

And left behind of Angelo: a few stuffed animals, one shirt (for Hyrum), an empty high chair, an empty bed, and many memories. I know he'll never remember us. With his attachment disorder, I doubt he'll remember us past the end of September. But we will remember.
Good-bye, Jello.