Thirteen weeks he grew within me. A mystery unfolding, on the cusp of flutters felt.
Thirteen weeks since he's returned to The Mother, where life continues to flourish and grow. In a little garden where picking slugs is part of daily rhythm. We hang clothes in the sun to dry, and play in the daisy filled grass.
'where's your baby?' she asks me, as I'm digging near the tiny grave, planting more flowers
'he's right here'
'you very sad mama?'
'yes, i was very sad'
'i sad too mama'
'i know.. i know'
i wonder what her memories will be.
The memories of her brother born in the pool are retold over and over. She asks for the story of her birth and how we adorned her with love and crooning about how beautiful she was, how she was held and kissed and never left my side. Will she have memories of our Leo's death and birth? of helping me to prepare his tiny body? of the simplicity of the human experience - there is death, and there is birth. there is sad, and it's okay. there is blood, and it's not scary. there are flowers for the little baby that was in mama's belly no more.
Every Monday in reverence.
It doesn't matter how busy we may be, how the day is flowing.. It doesn't matter if it's not at the forefront of my mind, as it becomes more of the past than of the presence. There is the pull of my body, like a compass steadily pointing North even when you don't look at it - wherein my body remembers, grieves, loves, accepts, reflects how it's part of the story, part of this quilt of life.. Miscarriage, the greatest loss is the story untold. The memories that will never be, the age gap that is stark reminder where one would be, a place holder there unintended.
Thirteen weeks since he's returned to The Mother, where life continues to flourish and grow. In a little garden where picking slugs is part of daily rhythm. We hang clothes in the sun to dry, and play in the daisy filled grass.
'where's your baby?' she asks me, as I'm digging near the tiny grave, planting more flowers
'he's right here'
'you very sad mama?'
'yes, i was very sad'
'i sad too mama'
'i know.. i know'
i wonder what her memories will be.
The memories of her brother born in the pool are retold over and over. She asks for the story of her birth and how we adorned her with love and crooning about how beautiful she was, how she was held and kissed and never left my side. Will she have memories of our Leo's death and birth? of helping me to prepare his tiny body? of the simplicity of the human experience - there is death, and there is birth. there is sad, and it's okay. there is blood, and it's not scary. there are flowers for the little baby that was in mama's belly no more.
Every Monday in reverence.
It doesn't matter how busy we may be, how the day is flowing.. It doesn't matter if it's not at the forefront of my mind, as it becomes more of the past than of the presence. There is the pull of my body, like a compass steadily pointing North even when you don't look at it - wherein my body remembers, grieves, loves, accepts, reflects how it's part of the story, part of this quilt of life.. Miscarriage, the greatest loss is the story untold. The memories that will never be, the age gap that is stark reminder where one would be, a place holder there unintended.