J.S.
I thought about starting to write to the child I didn’t have. I thought about starting to put the words floating around in my head into black and white. Letters to you little one.
The world I would show you, the seasons and soil and sun. But I think it would hurt more. You never went away, you never existed. Giving shape to the words would give too much shape to you. A shape to grieve.
Formless was safer, you could be carried away with a breeze. You could be invisible. Only appearing as the ghosts I used to read about in stories. I became used to the visits. I started to see the pattern, no longer coming out of nowhere, but coming in the cycle of my hormones. Like a new moon, when the light was so low and a sliver was all we saw. I knew then my body would let you visit. Not welcomed but accepted.
In the depths of those days it felt like the sadness would never give way. But the cycles rolled on, the aching would lessen, the ghosts would leave, and I could feel a little stronger again to face the world.
Childless, alone, but still standing.
