Three times today I’ve backed my way out of comment blocks. Confidence in what I had to say falling away into a dimness, like the day into the dusk.
And too, in what’s been said. I pack the words in layers of the months, the years, into a file. Why save them? Yet, maternal instinct cuts and wraps in tissue and lays away the first year lock of baby hair. Won’t leave the children floating all alone in space, stumbled upon and held to ridicule of photos looking back, like beehive hairdos no longer found in mirrors.
I’ve learned to speak; now I must relearn to be quiet.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology