I think I’m over it until I see another friend announce her pregnancy on Facebook.
I think I’m over it until I see a picture of a friend whose pregnancy started just a few weeks after mine and the sight of her smiling face and rounded belly makes me go numb.
I think I’m over it as the world explodes in justified rage and demands for justice in light of the recent deaths of Michael Brown, Tamir Rice and Eric Garner.
I think I’m over it as I attempt to open to the agony of countless women and men whose black sons are slain in the United States every twenty eight minutes.
I even feel like I’m over it as I stand with the throngs of people of every color who have come to say enough.
And then it arrives with an immediacy and force I cannot ignore.
It’s a different grief than the early days. I do not become immediately engulfed. It is tangible, though muted.
When grief arrives, I feel the world tilt, and whatever brightness or contentment I may have just been feeling, slips away. I grope for it, but those light, bright feelings are beyond my reach.
In an instant, I am on an raft floating far from the mainland wherein lies my family, friends and community. I am alone. And because this is a pregnancy loss, and because I have not shared it widely, I feel invisible.
It’s like it never happened.