Posts Tagged ‘grief’

A little girl, soft and delicate,
visited today.
She twisted her curls
and chased my cats.
Her tiny voice tugged
at my resisting heart
and opened the wound left by Emily;
and now, as if it were yesterday,
I cannot sleep.

Years ago,
on warm September nights like this,
I lay awake,
counting kicks and dreaming
of a dark-haired child,
dimpled and velvet-skinned;
of baby giggles
and tiny arms
wrapped tight around my neck.

She would listen, wide-eyed,
to stories of princesses and magic
and tell me secrets.
She’d want high heels too early,
and like boys too soon;
and I would love Emily

Just like yesterday,
I am awake,
sitting cross-legged
on a hospital bed,
my arms wrapped tight
across my belly;
rocking to life,
willing to live,
but feeling no sign,
no kick from the tiny foot
pressed against
my aching rib.

Just like yesterday,
the scream is still
caught in my throat
as my doctors escape
in hospital routines
to avoid my eyes.
A nurse offers tea
and sits with me
through the long night vigil.

Just like yesterday,
my husband tells me
later that they let him hold her;
that she was perfect.
Ten fingers, ten toes,
her skin as soft as air
her hair dark,
her tiny nose upturned.
But I have never seen her,
will never hear her gentle breathing,
her cry, her giggles.

Will never hold her.

Part of me dies forever,
and today is
just like yesterday.

In memory of our daughter, Emily Potts, November 21, 1975.


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