not this time of year again
/with heavy hands
i rummaged through her little pink box
to find her Merry Christmas garden flag
and none of it felt merry.
with heavy hands
i rummaged through her little pink box
to find her Merry Christmas garden flag
and none of it felt merry.
she was never staying long in this world –
it’s a kind of truth that only your bones can understand
but this brittle autumn air always chokes me with its taunting anticipation
I wish you knew my grief, all the years without her being mentioned,
without even a single thought until July rolls around each year.
The guilt of smiling, of forgetting for even a moment.
The anger at a world that keeps turning while mine has come to a halt.
she is long gone,
and much of the carbon in her little body
has already moved on to someplace else.
and with that revelation, a relief --
But in the depths of this despair,
I find a flicker, a light, a flare.
For though you linger, dark and grim,
Love's eternal flame will never dim.
i always think you’re dying.
isn’t that the silliest thing?
you have long been dead
and in the ground
Bereaved 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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