Always, Always

What is it like, to lose a child?
A baby?

It is crying, nonstop, out of nowhere,
Pain and terror and sadness,
At first ever constant, then fading,
To lurk always in the shadows of consciousness.

It is sleepless nights, manic days,
Numbing, inappropriate emotions,
Ill-fitting mantle of exhaustion,
Inescapable, haunting memories,
Of sound and smell and touch,
Desperate grasping at sensation,
I'm not ready to forget.

It is the searing brand of remembering,
Harsh and gasping breaths,
Bubbling milk, cruel suction,
The moment the breathing stopped,
The feel of death in my arms,
Orange, pale skin, bustling hushed nurses,
Harsh and gasping sobs,
Helpless goodbyes.
The long ride home.

The stuff of nightmares,
Crying babies that cannot be reached.
Memorials to be planned.

It is a cognizance of dates,
Anniversaries,
Jutting out from the calendar,
Like shards of broken glass,
Waiting to cut, to shed blood,
To toughen into scars.

It is the tangy, metallic taste of envy,
Sorrowful flinching at the sight of babies,
Irrational anger at those without pain,
Self-disgust and joy and soul-clenching sadness and happiness,
Simultaneously.
Hugging my own child,
A moment too hard, too long,
In fear and gratitude and desperate longing.

It is a hole, never to be filled,
In the family portrait,
A name, longed for, seldom used,
Never the same,
Retired like the jersey of a baseball legend,
Longing for life.

It is awkward questions,
Painful conversations, kind words,
Rote responses,
Struggling for words, for balance,
Rethinking what should have been said,
Or left unsaid.

It is the trauma,
Not being able to forgive,
For a vulnerable moment, badly handled,
Perceptions altered, maybe forever,
Unhealing, pustulant, emotional sores.

It is gaining a family you never wanted,
Sisters and brothers in loss,
Hands to catch, wisdom to share,
Hard-earned, unenviable,
Compassion and recognition.

It is healing, survival,
The realization that one day
You're more likely to laugh than cry,
Holding a baby with only a glimmer of pain,
Feeling the weight of the future,
Heavier than the past.
Gratitude for virtues learned,
Strength gained, self-discovery.

It is regret,
Always, always regret,
For what might have been,
For what will never be.
Always, always missing her,
Even as there's relief for pain spared,
Hers, mine, ours.
Always, always wondering,
Did she know? Did she feel?
Did love matter?

It is not knowing when the end begins,
Does mourning fade?
It is ritual,
One day at a time,
Wondering how grief feels,
At two years old, at ten?

It is knowing, without any doubt,
I will never again feel those tiny fingers,
Wrapped around mine,
No more tickly hair fluffs,
Pursed lips, bitty squeaky cries,
She will never know home.
No more hiccups, milky bubbles,
Fluttering eyes, soft cheek stroking,
Precious cuddly body against my skin,
Ashes only now.

It is tears,
Indescribable,
Nonsensical,
It is what it is.