The missing is killing me lately. Especially at night when I turn out the light and have nothing but a canvas of black on which to paint obscenly lit images of despair and death.
I see his/her little hand flickering on the screen. I hear his/her heart beating on the doppler. I can't tell you. I can't tell you how I didn't know. I saw him/her. I loved him/her.
"I miss you I miss you I miss you..." I whisper into the darkness.
The utter loss keeps me so preoccupied that I never even have to touch the guilt. But I do. I abandoned my child completely... to death and dismemberment in a malevolent, steel-tooled eviction. And "sorry" is a fart that changes naught.
There it is in my mind's eye again. The preciousness of the moment just before. But you know... what's the point? I still can't rescue us. I go over and over, but I'm here; those alabastar forms are there. Fixed.
I will not wake up in those stirrups again. I will not feel the loss occurring. I will not heave and shake and sense the scene within.
Away me and now, before the heifer needs a brand. Take me away to that little waving hand. "Hi, Mom!" typed onto the film above the little arm, the little hand.
Despondent, with all the necessity in the world, I search for a quick bit of preserving denial. Make it a nightmare! Make it unreal. Make it anything untrue but, for the love of God, tell me it didn't happen. Tell me so I can close my eyes and sleep with nothing.
A would-have-been birthday is coming. It approaches in pieces, but it would have been whole and fit for a whole child. A whole hand. An 8-year-old growing hand. A hand to rip into presents. A hand to hold a balloon, a forkful of cake. A hand to kiss. A hand to love.
Where is that hand? Heaven aside, where IS that particular flesh and blood? Ever looking to satisfy a void that nothing fills on a birthday where no one sings or even deigns to remember.
All that I wanted forced through cheesecloth. Such a strange valley. Such a long strange furrow.
I had the film interred with my mother and father and my miscarried child who rests in a small, porcelain box depicting Christ as He holds a lamb. Film, you know, because it was all I had of my first child. If you held it up to the light you could see him/her. And the floating arm, the waving hand, "Hi, Mom!"