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 |  my entries for the Construct Cup |
| I’m a wordsmith by trade, but when I saw her in the NICU standing over Caleb, her finger stroking his little hand singing the same songs she’d shared with him when he was still within her— when he was still whole— my craft deserted me. there are no words to say anything to a new mother as she loses her child by inches. I tried them in my head. reassuring, faith filled, mourning, simple, hopeful, complicated words, filled my head with noise until I was drowning in possibilities— all inadequate. instead, I held her hand, watched with her in silence, turned my head and closed my eyes when she begged me not to look at her. they all stare at me, she said, and I knew why they stared because I felt myself doing it— watching her to see where she needed me, hoping for a clue, a hint of which word she needed. but their looks—our looks— made her feel naked raw. brain dead. simple words made the next steps necessary. and impossible. she held him in her arms for the first time, for the last time, and sang a wordless song to him to guard his way. Prompt for: April 26, 2016 ▼ |
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