In the days immediately following the birth of my stillborn baby, I played a lot of baseball.
After the loss of my infant son, I began to notice the vast number of minefields that we navigate during every conversation.
This poem was written for my sister who recently received the heartbreaking news that at 16 weeks gestation her baby’s heart had stopped beating.
I won’t allow myself to give into the fear that terror provides, and I refuse to let my kids live in fear of terrorism.
The familiar words reach our ears. I hate that they are familiar. Isis. Extremist. Suicide bomber.
And then my cousin fell into the grave. At first there was silence. And then we laughed.
My monster, you see, is the lingering doubt that if I had made a single decision differently at four in the morning on a Monday almost six years ago, my daughter Hudson might still be alive today.
The early knowledge that those who mean the most to you are not invincible, that your love is not enough to save them – it turns the heart not to stone, as stories would have it.
I was jealous. Fifteen like me but petite, hair a brown cascade brushing the waistband of her cut-offs.
In this past year, I’ve come to see hardship in the same way I’ve seen snow. We fall, struggle, mix with the earthiest parts of ourselves, and melt into puddles of who we are or who we once were.