I miss so much it hurts
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I miss the ten days I felt like a mom. I miss people calling me mom, mama, mommy when they spoke to me about him. I am still his mommy but does the world see that?
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a love song from the early days
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this cursed body of mine, a walking grave,
a shallow coffin,
now scarred by an indescribable kind
of maternal violence
that i shudder to absorb
Amado, aged 3, playing in the park with a dog
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Though I know that what is mothered can never really be lost.
My heartbeat is mundane,
and the same as before my baby died
And so much of motherhood is mundane delights,
Laughter and wet grass beneath our feet,
So close I can almost feel it
Swag bags and grief
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This was a much sadder swag bag. In it were pamphlets for bereaved parents, funeral home brochures, and a teddy bear weighted with marbles to give us something to clutch in the absence of our daughter. This time I walked out the door, bag in hand, chest sunken, head bowed, my body utterly broken.
But maybe, just maybe, still a warrior.
Read MoreTen
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Yes! Yes, I think. We need different words – a new language – to say what or who you were. You never breathed air. You were never that kind of baby. When I’ve pictured you, you’ve never been a baby, in fact; you are always a girl, but because I never got to know what girl you’d become, the shape of you just slips away, again and again.
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