You’re in a box in the freezer, wrapped in velvet cloth, a shell beside you for the ocean you will never see. You should be in my belly, growing, not in a box waiting for burial, waiting for us to be ready to say goodbye.
Right now, we can barely breathe, let alone say the words we will wish we had said when we lay you in the dirt.
Right now, we are getting through. Making sandwiches and soup. Sleeping in the day. Crying in the night. Walking the dogs. Reading to the older brother you will never meet, who may never be an older brother.
A neighbor called across the yard today, laughing, “How are you feeling? Pregnant, right?”
I shook my head and walked to the fence, not wanting to shout, I lost the baby. A boy. He came early on Friday. I held him in my hands, but I cross to her and say these words, followed by the words I say but do not mean: “We’re okay.”
And maybe those words are true. We ARE okay. We’re not dead, right? But someone has died. A tiny someone I carried in my body.
You have perfect feet, little nostrils, tiny hands. Your eyes shut tight, eyes I’ll never see or kiss. I’m sorry, baby. We wanted you. For your short life you were loved. You will always be loved, even if you never heard those words. Even as you will always be lost, to us.