Objections

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Objections

There is a nihilism implicit here, I know. I see it too, lurking behind my snarky objections and passive-aggressive stance towards the constant self-improvement and self-branding in workplaces these days. What is the point of setting goals? What is the point of organization and preparation; collecting glass bottles and like-new fuzzy pajamas with feet if the baby - well, you know the story by now. What is the point of anything at all? As soon as you have set out your plans in neat, bulleted lists, a pandemic hits, the laws change, a storm floods your city, the power is knocked out for three days.

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Paint by numbers

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Paint by numbers

Parenting your dead child is like painting by numbers but there are no numbers to paint by. All the rules and directions have been lost. How does one know what color comes next? What is the image we are trying to complete when the baby we grew, died? We are left guessing. What would their favorite color be? Is purple supposed to fill in this space? What about green?

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Love on four paws

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Love on four paws

He sits with me in my stiflng pain, silently, faithfully, patiently. He makes himself comfortable on her changing pad beside the crib – the one he knew better than to even consider laying a toe on while she was alive, but immediately staked a claim to the very first day we were back in our home after her death – and settles in for as long as I need to mourn.



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On writing

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On writing

It tapered off slowly, the writing. I’d find myself starting a new post with the bemused observation that it had been two months since I’d last written. Then it had been three months, then five, and now I might write twice a year. The last post was for her birthday. January. The only post this year. It’s been a crazy year, this one. But still, I wonder what happened to time when I passed it all writing. Where did I find it that time? What did I ignore or neglect or simply cease to notice while I was writing? How is grief so all-consuming and then one day… it’s not?

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