One of the very first things you learn when you lose a baby is that there are NO WORDS. People say this to you, you feel it back. Sometimes there is nothing. No explanation which can trip easily off the tongue, no articulation of what your poor brain is struggling with and no adequate description of the pain and suffering which winds so far into your future that the present is too terrifying to exist in.
When you log into Facebook and see another birth announcement shortly after a conversation when it becomes clear life is going to take a step away from new parenthood, when you try and involve yourself in a project related to your dead child only to be reminded of the joy of those living ones. That other planet which people exist on where they spend a lifetime taking a child for granted. And so they should. Every small child should occupy the surroundings of a parent. Every child should be made up of atomic love.
There are no words to explain my juncture. Bed negates the need to even try. So I stay here a lot at the moment, waiting for an epiphany of some sort. The event horizon. The dawn of new words.
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