At the beginning of the year
few people acknowledged
the loss that tore me apart
Why, oh why, oh why?
I don’t understand!
I don’t understand…
that shuddered through me
limb from limb, soul from heart.
Most said nothing, or their fear
filled the awkward silence
with a paltry platitude.
It wasn’t meant to be…
some said confidently.
It’s better this way…
(Better for whom, you say?)
It could have been so much worse…
The first glimpse of my genetic curse.
And they expected gratitude?
This didn’t comfort my sorrow
or prepare me for tomorrow.
‘It’ wasn’t just something
that filled me with wonder and joy
‘It’ wasn’t just my body changing —
‘It’ was a promise of a boy.
Only a few call him by his name.
Some know, others not at all,
what it’s like to lose someone so small.
but all agree: after loss, life is never the same.
I pushed on, trapped and broken,
trying to articulate the unspoken.
Because there is no genetic disinfectant:
I am unexpectedly unexpectant.
My circle of friends is smaller and tighter.
They carry me along and say I’m a fighter.
How I have wept, utterly faithless
that I’ll ever have a child who isn’t faceless.
How I have crept from shock to grief
from which I thought there could be no relief.
Now I have stepped into a new belief
and budding hope is my new leit motif.