a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Emily Dickinson
Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers

Sunday, April 11, 2010

In this bed

Every night I lie in bed and nurse Monty in the same bed they laid Milos' dead little body next to me. Each night where I hold Monty in my arms and listen to his sweet sucking and cooing, is the spot where I have a fossilized picture of Milos silent and grey. It was just a little over a year ago and yet each night, lying next to my luscious second baby boy I am struck by how close Milos still feels and it breaks my heart all over again, in a new way, each day that Monty grows is a day that Milos never will.
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