Regretfully I am unable to remember or locate the person responsible for the short poem below. It was one that brought an ironic sort of comfort to me when we lost a child to miscarriage six summers ago. When you lose a child in this manner you join a club that you never knew existed. No one talks about it; its members seek anonymity. There are no membership drives. No meetings. It’s the Club That Must Not Be Named. And yet there are more member in it than you ever would have guessed until you join it yourselves. You learn to recognize others on the roster because they are the ones NOT attempting to bring you comfort through verbal platitudes. Once you’ve experienced loss like this you know better. You offer a tight smile. My eyes always misted up. Because you know. You know the pain and the hallowness felt by the newest members of your Club.
Fortunately for us (and for them) no one was ever so callous as to state that “It” was never really alive. I think I’d have probably throttled that individual. Even abortion providers must acknowledge the truth that it is…was…a life.
We’ve been blessed with two children since that summer. And while all three are a source of constant joy (and consternation, yes) to us we never forget the one we lost on this earthly plane. The one who looks down upon us all from Heaven.
THE MINOR LOSS
Baby clothes and too-long hugs
sleepless nights and crocheted rugs
some sympathy, some gratitude
a single oafish platitude
from one who knows not what to say:
“It wasn’t really alive, eh?”
The mark is missed.
She quickly turns away.