There is no greater sin that I could commit than forgetting you and I know that.
This is my declaration to you l’eau.
This is my vow and promise.
Tu as été tout.
I would have given you everything.
You haunt me little one.
You tug at my skirts like a phantom limb.
Your sticky hands grasping at my hip, desperate for my attention.
And how could I not give it to you?
I relent to you, I relent to the daydreams and hopes of what you could have been.
Tortuous is the only word I have for it.
But it satiates your mewling, the little whispers and gasps I hear from you.
On March 13 I began to bleed and I bled for the next 18 days.
It was not a heavy stream, it was not a threat to my life, but the persistence of it and the cause of it drained nearly every ounce of my strength.
My body, my womb, everything about me that is supposed to lead to life – it became an escape for death.
The entirety of my being crept along that fine line. Past all known lands and languages, it lies there beyond the seas. The sandy embankment that lies beyond the edges of this existence. That’s where I gave birth to you.
Bypassing every part of this reality, I brought you to the edge and there I lay, huddled and screaming as an animal does in labor. Guttural moans were ripped from the pit of my stomach as you were taken from me and my thighs unwillingly spread to the hands of Death.
They don’t feel like anything when they first enter, but as they clutch your womb and squeeze, coaxing out a slow trickle of blood and minute clots, the agony is searing. It will scar you.
That was the only part of you to see the light of day.
As you died little one, so did little bits of me.
You sapped everything from me.
My skin grew pale, my eyes hollowed and I craved meat. I tore into bloody hamburgers, desperately trying to replace what was being taken from me.
Yet, my body clung to you.
Refused to let you leave, as if by sheer willpower my body could build a Frankenstein creature from the scraps left behind.
And even still, there is the alcove within me, the one you carved out for yourself. It’s a dark cave and smells what I imagine a bear’s den would smell of. Old smells. Ones of decay and forgotten things.
I’m not sure that this is supposed to be a part of the grieving process, but I remind myself of you every day. I pray I always do. And how could I not?
There you were. A little spark of life that woke me up one morning and in neat, authoritative type declared yourself to me.
“You are pregnant”
That is an ancient feeling. I don’t think I could ever forget it.
To carry a flame in the waters of your womb. To continue your species and pass on everything that had been given to you by your parents, and to them by theirs and so on and so forth all the way to beginning.
My heart is easily broken, but I loved you from the start.
I have always been a storm, but what is the sea without water?
What is a mother without her baby?
What is the life without death?
I am honored by you, you will always be my little one.