Hiding from my muse

I want to write about your birth, but that also means writing about your death. I haven’t been able to talk about those last precious moments with you. Only to your daddy and your grandmas. And even then, only a little, always with careful euphemism. I’ve sat down here just so I can write about that day, and I find I’m surfing to other websites, looking out the window, suddenly becoming absorbed in what’s on TV...anything but just write. Why would I want to write about this when I so obviously don’t?

Still Without Words

I haven't been able to write. I can't find words these last few days. I wanted to post happy memories of my pregnancy, inspired to do so by a post on a support board. I still want to write about your birth. I want to write so much but none of the words will come. No words today, no tears either; even going to my Make-Me-Cry playlist hasn't eased this. I hurt, but mostly I just feel tired and anxious.

I miss you so much. Sometimes I'm so shocked that you're never coming back, that I'm never going to hold you again. Other times it seems like you were never here at all. I miss your little kicks. I miss wishing I could have a drink or a cigarette. I miss fretting because you were having a quiet day. I miss how your daddy would sleep with his hand curled around the roundness that was you. I miss how you'd kick him in the back while I was trying to sleep. I even miss being so achingly tired at work that I thought I'd never survive the shift--it's easier to be there now, but so much lonelier.

Your daddy and I are already talking about "trying again." But sometimes I feel like that's disloyal to you. Especially on those days when I feel like you never really were here. Those are bad days. I'm afraid you'll think we didn't really love you; that you weren't the epicenter of our universe. That you didn't matter. That you don't matter. Because you do. Oh, you do--there isn't a moment I'm not thinking of you and missing you. You are and always will be my son, my first child. My beloved.

Aching to Write

There aren't any words. Where would I even start? I feel so empty without my son inside me. I miss feeling his kicks. He was so active all the time, and now there's nothing. I hurt to hold him, but my arms are empty. All that's left are pictures and memories and tears. I want my life back--but the life I want back stopped existing the moment we found out he wasn't staying. I feel like the world itself stopped existing--but I look out the window and the sun is still shining. I turn on the television and see life going on. It is maddening and it is comforting. People walk by our house and smile and wave, and I smile and wave back. But I want to scream at them that our son is gone. I want to talk to people but I don't want to say any of the words it would take. Who am I now, if I'm not a glowing mother to be? What is my life for, if I'm not living for him?