I realize I am the hermit crab in this story. I am in the “darkness of a shell folded like a pastry.” I am turning away “against the light” and the author “looking in.” But I am also choosing a house from the “pearly rubble” the sea has brought me and continuing along the tideline.
Read MoreYou were like a flower
not yet unfurled
remarkable in all your promise
tender in all your delicacy
You were like a dream
I awoke from
too early
When I think of your music, of the music that connects me to you, I think of the word from Old Irish, to keen, to lament loudly over the dead. There is a part of me that’s always keening for you. And that part longs to sing — to sing, as if you were still alive, as if you needed me to sing you to sleep, to sing you awake, to comfort you with my voice.
Read MoreBereaved parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion, and the other side of getting through this mess called grief.
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Parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion we learn for others, having been through this mess — and see it reflected back at you, acknowledged and understood.
Thanks to photographer Xin Li and to artist Stephanie Sicore for their respective illustrations and photos.
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