Monday, December 4: Stillbirth

Monday, December 4: Stillbirth

Sometimes I dream of stillbirth—my mother pushing, pushing, crying out in grief, the dead baby placed in her arms. When this dream comes, I know I have gone too long without silence. I know I need to sit or move or write my way to the Still, Small Voice that is In Us, With Us.

I need to let my ancestors catch up to me. I need to let my losses catch up to me. I need to retell the story of my life, then wait for the new Next.  

In contemplation or poetry, silence or song, movement or stillness, I take my would-have-been older brother into my arms. Slowly, I wash him, hold him, rock him, name him, bury him. My mother stands beside me, silent, fully present.


When he is in the ground I can begin to see who he is right now. A friendship I must let go. A resident at Petalouda House who needs to move on, whom we cannot really help. A hope I had for my job that can’t happen. A dream I have held onto for much too long that is keeping me from clearly seeing what is meant to come next. I know what I need to do.

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