Fragile
My friend she lost her baby three days ago.
She told us on the Internet. She’s not the first one.
Bad is right motherhood is a cloister. This place of typeface speaking can be a release. A breakout from the cloister and the arras. I hear you.
He says we’re lucky. We are and we aren’t. Our family can still survive on the mythology that the children are immortal because they might out live us. We may pretend they face no fate of dust like us. We feel that they will live on. And on. And on.
When it comes to my children I have no sense of proportion. Among other things I want them omnipresent and everlasting. Yet with these little ones I know inside it is as fairy’s wing as fragile as a sprite's voice on the wind. They are not necessarily strong. They have rattled their little bones out of nothing more special than a mother like me. A woman of no extraordinary power but something magical instead come from something plain. Though they be magical they are not necessarily strong.
To those who lose their little ones, or cannot find them, there is no quell. There is a place for wailing. I wonder for how many years we have not heard. For how the pain and loss was swept away so callously. Or in ignorance and superstition. I hope it means something to have their names heard; to say it aloud.
Dear mothers… It means something to me to be included. It teaches me that whether the person in her bed upstairs or the person in his crib sleeping tonight lives a hundred years or a hundred days or a hundred minutes or any less they are my child. They are mother’s child loved and cherished without measure or proportion for all eternity.
My heart of my heart to you CC.
She told us on the Internet. She’s not the first one.
Bad is right motherhood is a cloister. This place of typeface speaking can be a release. A breakout from the cloister and the arras. I hear you.
He says we’re lucky. We are and we aren’t. Our family can still survive on the mythology that the children are immortal because they might out live us. We may pretend they face no fate of dust like us. We feel that they will live on. And on. And on.
When it comes to my children I have no sense of proportion. Among other things I want them omnipresent and everlasting. Yet with these little ones I know inside it is as fairy’s wing as fragile as a sprite's voice on the wind. They are not necessarily strong. They have rattled their little bones out of nothing more special than a mother like me. A woman of no extraordinary power but something magical instead come from something plain. Though they be magical they are not necessarily strong.
To those who lose their little ones, or cannot find them, there is no quell. There is a place for wailing. I wonder for how many years we have not heard. For how the pain and loss was swept away so callously. Or in ignorance and superstition. I hope it means something to have their names heard; to say it aloud.
Dear mothers… It means something to me to be included. It teaches me that whether the person in her bed upstairs or the person in his crib sleeping tonight lives a hundred years or a hundred days or a hundred minutes or any less they are my child. They are mother’s child loved and cherished without measure or proportion for all eternity.
My heart of my heart to you CC.
Labels: everything
posted by mo-wo at 12:23 a.m.
5 Comments:
That is beautiful...from the heart.....and so true.....
my two kids are my miracles....healthy, loud and full of life.....Scott should have been with them.
Hug your kids...
i thought this was beautiful, too, Mo-Wo.
and yeh, it does help. and i thank you, for wanting to be included, for being courageous enough to look on our sadness and horror and stay beside us, being a friend.
This was so moving, Mo-Wo. And you are a true friend for not shying away from it.
It makes me think of all the mothers who are never recognised as such because the hand of the little spirit they hold and nurture is not a visible one.
thanks, Mo. I had no idea. I haven't been around CC's site in a long while and so I didn't know about the pregnancy even.
And now.
During the holidays...
A beautiful post, mo-wo. How true that we can't forget about the little ones lost. I will definitely hug my kids harder tonight when I go to bed.
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