born without a heartbeat
tomorrow I breathe again
reciting to myself
impermanence is permanence
10 years ago
holding our stillborn son
today I count strata layers
curling in the deep core
my suffocating tomb
+ + +
We discover meaning through experiences. We’re young. We’re old. We keep experiencing, we keep thinking, we keep feeling. We like to lie to ourselves that things will stay the same. Then, we say it’ll get better.
We keep changing. Life keeps changing. Endless spirals and cycles of decay and growth. Struggling to find an equilibrium. We know life is cruel. Searching for a sense of meaning.
Why does the sun set? Why does a flower bloom? We know how … but why? How is everything all connected? Maybe our minds create our unique connections. Maybe there aren’t any …
I think too much. I don’t “do” enough. My muscles and my body aren’t “tired” enough. Sleep continues the questions and searches through my dreams. Familiar becomes unfamiliar and back again. I wake up and I go to sleep and life continues.
I feel tired. I feel sad. I feel lonely. I’m becoming disconnected again … to myself and this life. Grief does this to me. Anniversaries do this to me. I think too much about what could have been instead of what is.
10 years ago, this past weekend, I held my stillborn baby boy. Looking at his beautiful face, I was overwhelmed by sadness, grief, and a stinging sense of joy. I left the delivery room and was physically sick in the hospital bathroom.
You, my son, are not here.
I’m here. I love you. I miss you. I miss what could have been. You touched me with love’s potential — and then shook my soul and thundered my mind.
Today, I honour and remember. My hands are trembling and empty — but I’m still holding you in my pain. And I’m grateful for this presence.