August 1, 2010


Last night I fell asleep clutching a tiny white polo shirt, my fingers curled tight round its neatly folded collar. It would have looked so good on him, against his milk chocolate skin. But he'd have outgrown it by now, if he were here, and growing still.

I woke scant hours later to discover: I was still alive. He was still dead.


I love my baby so much, and yet I didn't get to keep him. My own mother was apathetic and completely inept, but had three healthy children that survived her, somehow.

What kind of world is this, and why am I still in it?

1 comment:

  1. that last question was rhetorical. please do not try to answer it!