And i, a gasping new-deliver'd mother

Gasp

I knew I’d be sad about death, when it came.

I knew grief meant crying and wistful storytelling; memories and missing things. The absence of something familiar.

I knew these things in the way I knew what the Prime Minister should do about the global economic crisis. In other words, I didn’t have a fucking clue. Just some opinions based on other people’s words.

Gasp.

It wasn’t like that for me, when it was time for me to grieve. Death was a womb, not a tomb. Her body was empty. She was a husk. My baby was a husk. So what’s to grieve?

There were no memories, no stories. There was only Everything. The infinite possibilities of her.

Gasp

Laundry was grief. It smelt like new. She never got to be new.

Fingernails were grief. They dug in to my palm. Feel this. Feel this. Feel for her.

Chicken dinners were grief. They could never fill me up

My laptop was grief. The ‘Home’ key came loose in my bag. I wept. I’d lost my home.

The 50 bus route was grief. I resented its normality.

A forgotten child’s glove ripped my soul from me on a January morning. It looked so lonely.

Gasp

Then I forgot to grieve.

 It made me sadder.

Does your grief surprise you?