I had felt the anticipation,
the hopeful onward motion of awaiting a baby before.
I felt that with you.
I was looking forward, making plans.
Then came the jarring reversal,
the time-stand-still shock when we learned
you would not live long.
All things that mattered so much that morning
were insignificant, heavily secondary.
There was only this sorrow, stasis,
You should have been moving more,
but you started to move less.
You should have been growing,
my stomach rounding out into that third trimester,
but it didn't.
Eventually, all movement ceased.
I wept when you were born.
Here was this little person before me,
my own baby daughter,
I held you,
dressed in white, softly wrapped.
I held your hand.
I kissed your head.
You were quiet.
You were still.
I would like to stand here,
stuck in the dark mud of my sorrow and loss,
never leaving my house.
But, whoever said, "time stood still,"
Days have passed.
The sun has set, and risen.
The weather is turning colder.
The boys are asking about Christmas.
They climb up beside me where I lay,
still, on the bed.
They crawl on me
and ask me questions
and say things that make me laugh.
They are ever moving forward.
We will bury you next week.
I will watch them lower your tiny bed
into the earth.
Tears will move down my face.
Your body will rest, but it will not stay the same.
You are moving on.
I feel, somehow and somewhere
your lively, joyful spirit.
I feel the sorrow, and the stillness,
but I also feel peace,
I will move on,
but I will take you with me.
You are mine,
and I will love you