There are no words

There are no words

We are honored today to have a guest post from Robyn, Owen's mummy, of The Heart Sees Clearly. She writes: "I present to you my new definition of strength, as it applies to my grieving heart: The ability to carry on one minute and allow yourself to fall apart the next. The willingness to make yourself vulnerable, to be honest with your emotions, to cry and scream when you need to. The capacity to feel joy without guilt. The selfless act of taking on the suffering so your child does not have to. The power to let go, when all you want to do is hold on, when all you want is one more cuddle. To live, knowing your child will always be with you in your heart."

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the first address

Raahi never came here. She was a dream I had secretly cherished in so many homes, and a reality in the previous house, as she grew in my ripened belly. Then she became absent. This was the first house Raahi should have lived in. And this was the first space that her absence filled. Which place do you associate with your earliest grief, and why? Have you had to leave that space? If so, what did you feel? If not, how would you feel if you had to move?

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encounters with normal

When I think about you Zachary, my heart pounds hard. It feels like prisoners are pounding on the walls and trying to break out. If you were here we would get to see your foot in person not in a mold. I wonder if you would like spice. I like spices so I think you would too. I love you. It occurs to me that many kids were watching Sunday morning cartoons with their siblings while C.T. was pining for his dead baby brother. How do you cope with normality after the loss of your child(ren)? 

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