One of the harder parts of living after the death of one’s child is the absence of memory; the milestones that live on only in a parent’s imagination. This poem expresses the complex feelings inherent in that experience, particularly on a deceased child’s birthday.
Fuck June. Fuck loss. Fuck innocence. Fuck memories of a life when I was blissfully expecting the loss I had no way of expecting. Fuck.
Our grief-averse culture seems to rush us to the finish line; that place where things are just happy, and our loved ones are remembered only with smiles and upbeat feelings—But honestly, there is power in dwelling. Power I am happy to claim.
Moving after my son’s death and it’s hard—although people here know he existed, he’s still an abstract concept to them, only “real” to me.
STILL grieving? Yes, I am still grieving. I am still grieving, because the work of grief is never done. I am still grieving, because I put into my grief what I cannot put into life with my son. I am still grieving, because he is STILL, and will always, be dead...
I am the mother whose body swelled with pregnancy.
I am the mother who dreamed and wanted and planned.
I am the mother who left my heart in a small and curtained alcove room.
I am the mother who screamed and cried and begged.
Hearing the news was definitely the worst part. “There is no heartbeat.” It broke me. I fell. And the “worst” pieces just kept building.
I am a weed. They say I am strong, but I do not aim to be so. I don’t aim to be anything. I’m just here.
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