the contributors

 
 

Bonnie of Crib Chronicles

This is the third spring of buds on the birch trees we planted in our backyard my first Mother's Day...nine days after Finn was born, eight days after he died.

When I see birches bend to left and right/across the lines of straighter darker trees/I like to think some boy's been swinging them. - Robert Frost

Of course, it will not be him.

 

Janis of Ferdinand's Gifts

World crashed when he died. Picking up pieces and trying to fit together a puzzle without having any idea what the completed picture should look like.

Jen of There's a New Monarchy in Town

We had no idea she would leave us.

Six weeks old, sweet cherub cheeks just starting to smile in spite of a heart that simply couldn't cope. Now I'm left, forced into the dark, reeling with shock, empty arms hanging at my sides.

I ache for my lost purpose while I force one foot in front of the other. Trying my best to find a way back to new and utterly different light.

 

Julia of I Won't Fear Love

Very much a creature of water, I am still drawn to the flame. Campfire, the symbol of many a good thing about growing up in the Old Country. Candle, the symbol of many a thing to many a people. To me, always, and more since we buried our second child, our first son, A, to me-- a fragile, finite, ephemeral, but necessary focus point in the dark. When there is nothing else to do, I find myself lighting a candle.

Kate of Sweet | Salty

Knots in my hair and bags under my eyes, caustic soap, institutional green. Ben grunts in his cot, almost ready to come home, and the lost baby heart-trinket given to me by an NICU nurse as she took Liam away hangs on a string around my neck, warmed by my skin.

Niobe of Dead Baby Jokes

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Tash of Awful But Functioning

Just your average sports-watchin’, foul-mouthed, cynical mom who after five years of a miscarriage, infertility, infertility treatment, and a healthy toddler, decided to try one more time for one more baby.  Be careful what you wish for.   We are left with a gaping hole in our lives following a harrowing six days of our baby’s so-called life.  This is me coping, grieving, trying to mother a live, inquisitive three-and-a-half year old, as well as the memory of my dead daughter. I wax profane on the limits of science, bad odds, my inbred cynicism, and my overwhelming sadness.