Beholding the Stars – 11/6/25

I lost that baby long before I saw the scan, or the blood, or the grief.

I lost that baby when I was still overjoyed at being a mother,

When that maternal joy overflowed in me like a river, and staying home felt like it had purpose.

When belly kisses from this child’s dad were numerous, like stars on dark nights.

But dark nights are for me now.

Dark nights are when I hear the whisper of his voice “are you alright”,

And every time I think to myself “No”, even if the words don’t always come out.

Dark nights are when the stillness comes, and brings with it grief and a sensation of emptiness.

They are plentiful in this time, but I know they will slowly fade to that early morning glow.

And although I look to that time when joy is complete again, I somehow dread it,

For the sorrow to fade to a soft remembrance as I look back at myself here,

Here in the middle of it, in the thick of my valley of dark nights.

I don’t want to forget the depth of my grief, or the closeness of this loss.

I don’t want the absence of my child something only thought on occasion.

Somehow, I want to be consumed.

For in the consuming, I feel an honouring to what this is.

In the deep parts of the valley, I somehow find water.

And in the water, I see a reflection, and it is there I find this child close.

It is there I see God beside me.

So I long for it, in a way: that overwhelming sense of sickening sorrow.

I want it, and it wants me, and we cling together like sun and light.

For we are each others for a time.

We are companions in the valley.

I hold it close, this crumpling curving sadness,

This still pool of disappointment.

I swim in it, walk in it, breath it.

It is the essence of moving on.

For to see that morning glow, one must first behold the stars.