A pregnant mother lost a baby at fourteen weeks and buried the fetus behind a woodpile in her backyard. Before that, she asked if I would see his small body inside a blue ceramic bowl in her fridge and how the baby’s arm moved at the elbow hinge when she touched him. He had a torso and legs and two palms that would have clenched into fists when he cried.
Who can bear the shape of loss delivered in a paralyzing gaze and all the ways it would have looked like you? From the small, cold mouth of survival, we hinge at the joint and move. Let us remember how we would have held on, where we would have loved.
