holding on
/
it’s so much easier to be broken
than to sit around waiting and waiting and waiting
to break
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Broken-hearted
/
This is how much she loves her daughter, enough to rend apart cells from deep within her chest, under layers of flesh and bone, without even lifting a finger. It may look as though she’s just sitting and staring at the wall, but inside, this bloody, violent, spectacle is unfolding.
Read Morea love song from the early days
/
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
Life and loss, before and after
/
Us mortals, we like to fathom. Make sense. Calculate. Depend on. Plan. We accept that being derailed is part of the journey, and getting back on track reinforces the predictability, the reliability of life. But when life just becomes one derailment after another, do you create a different path?
Read MoreMemory
/
This is where my memory begins to fade. Wanting, what I now believe was the protection of my sanity, my mind started uprooting entire events and details of Raahi's hospital stay, as I could not bear to remember the nuances, grief sweeping through me like a forceful mudslide. My memory wanted to forget death, and with it, it had to forget life too.
Read MoreMilk
/
I remember exactly how we were sitting on the hospital bed. I remember the color of light coming through the hospital window. I remember A and I looking at each other, our pause of disbelief, and looking back at this idiotic woman who hadn’t gotten the memo. Then saying what I suddenly know I’ll be saying over and over and over: “The baby died.”
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