No mother should ever have to bury her child. Yet, we do.
I am so exhausted. Achy, sore – in my heart, my chest. Sore from digging the grave of my baby. Sore from holding R’s baby – lifting, carrying. I wanted to smell him, hold him, even as waves of sorrow rose and fell with every inhalation of his milky, infant scent.
I feel hollow. Spent. Perhaps, the worst is over. Perhaps, now I will sleep. This happened. It hurts. It has happened to others, too.