I wrote this poem five years ago, during a time of overwhelming grief. I have never shared it before. I pray these words are a comfort to others who have lost babies they have deeply loved but barely held, or never met. You are not alone.

Still

You’re

slipping

 away,

so whisper-soft I barely notice.

Until I do.

It’s the absences,

suddenly present,

sneaking

up on me—

nausea, relenting;

exhaustion, easing;

future, fading—

and I know you’re

slipping

away,

gone,

and I am alone

in this body.

And yet

I still feel you,

tucked safe inside,

your tiny heart beating

like hummingbird wings,

though I never saw it.

They never could find it.

But you know,

and I know,

that you still live

inside me,

and always will,

and it will be our secret

until the day,

together,

we die.

Related posts:

When You Walk Through a Valley

When Being a Grown-up Means You’re Still Growing Up

The One She Needed to Write

My book, When God Says, “Wait,” ministers to women who are waiting—including those enduring the painful wait for a child. You can sign up for updates from my ministry here, and purchase the book here.  

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