Today is the 35th anniversary of the baby I lost, to medically-induced miscarriage. For decades, I locked the door to the memory. For years, the end of January would be so difficult for me–my body ached, my mind was in torment, and I didn’t make the connection.
Our unresolved grief is held in our bodies, in our minds.
If we don’t deal with it, it will resurface.
We aren’t encouraged to talk about miscarriage, (or any loss of a baby). It’s done. Get on with life. It’s for the best. It wasn’t meant to be…
We pay the price for this kind of thinking. It haunts us in later years.

I miss
the sweet smoothness
of your velvety baby cheeks.

I miss
the soft, fuzzy down,
on your tiny round head.

I can almost see
your wee little fingers,
your tender baby toes.

I can smell
the cozy lullaby-baby scent–
mama’s milk and powdered talc,
sunshine and rain.

I can hear your faint stirrings,
mewlings that turn to angry wails.

The ache is sometimes so strong,
it still tugs at my breast.

I weep
for the little one that wasn’t…
the precious one they took
from my womb.

I am so sorry.
I would have given my life,
to have saved yours,
but the casualty of cancer,
was you.

All these years,
I have had memories of you
tucked away.

I have had to forgive myself,
and allow myself to grieve.

I need to let you go,
sweet angel–


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