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by Heather Carnaghan
The silence of stillbirth doesn’t tiptoe in or creep quietly, camouflaged, considerate. It roars and wails and fills the space stealthily, greedily, so there is no air left to breathe.
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by Heather Carnaghan
Crumpled tissues sit bedside, wet with twenty seven hours of sweat and tears so salty they’ve left crystalline tracks on my cheeks The glasses I’d never before removed for fear of missing a moment are strewn, one leg splayed their lenses fogged with bloody fingerprints and organic remnants of the moment I wished I had been blind to. I scan the room, wild eyed, trying to find the source of that horrible noise. It assaults my ears and pastes a look of horror on my husbands ragged face. A wail so deep and terrible that it hails from a primitive part of the psyche that has no words for this pain. The audience stands, hesitantly at first, wringing their hands and covering their mouths as they realize what I am searching for. The sorrowful ovation faces me and at last the source is clear. by Heather Carnaghan
My car flew dangerously around the bend as I fled my cookie cutter neighborhood where wildlife has been neatly replaced by concrete and a community pool. She dove into the road, as unexpected as my frenzied midnight journey. Tires screeched, tattooing the fresh tar, but she sat, still and stoic, staring with holographic eyes, unafraid. I stared back, distractedly thinking how unlike a real fox the toys I’d bought for Charlotte were. She was beautiful, fiercely so, like loving her might rip the heart right out of your chest. Her fiery tail flicked impatiently as she bored with our encounter and let me pass. I didn’t recognize the gift that she left me: a permanent symbol of a life that wouldn’t last. by Heather Carnaghan
She stopped kicking. Just like that her elbows and knees paused their nine month assault on my organs. I drank honey to coax her to dance and ice water, was that a shiver...? My swollen belly was leaden, heavy with the death my heart made me blind to see. I drove on with hope, a phone, and three car seats in the back seat of my tiny Hyundai Accent. by Heather Carnaghan
“It’s just a heartbeat scan” I told him and my words turned his car around. They echoed through the next two months and left him forever wondering if her heart would still be beating if he’d continued south on 95. by Heather Carnaghan
Love is a strong word for a binder but this binder was a work of art a type A educator’s titillating dream. Deliciously color coded, it held coveted secrets to my daily doings learned over thirteen years of attendance and parent conferences, of messy inquiry and messier class pets. That binder held in it the blueprint for a substitute, that stranger to my surrogate children, to assume my teacher identity fully and competently for an entire quarter, (A lifetime to an 8th grader). It was just enough time for me to grow a wriggling newborn into a rolling three month old. I was ready for her. by Heather Carnaghan
I like Lucy. Charlie Brown’s friend, is it? They’re not friends, But anyway. It’s short like Jack and Sam’s. Biff is short. We’re not naming her Biff. Aoife? It’s Irish like you and smooth like Kerrygold. “Ee-fah”? That’s a life sentence, not a name. No one can say Aoife. Amelia is… ...the air hostess? The pilot, you dolt! A strong namesake. A Doctor Who companion, really. What else is on that list? Charlotte. C-h-a-r-l-o-t-t-e ? Yeah. Charlotte. Jack, Sam, and Charlotte. Well? Charlotte. by Heather Carnaghan
Some women loath the girth of their newly pregnant bodies. Not me. I loved my curves. Full and round, I strutted, head high, in dresses so tight that they hugged my hips and showed your kicks. Those kicks were our secret, you hid most from daddy, but I knew you through them. The tiny elbows in my ribcage were a constant love song that grew stronger over our nine month romance. The rhythms and harmonies, those eager heartbeats and hiccups, sang of firsts steps and parades, of treasure hunts and birthday cakes. When the scan turned you from it to a she the key changed somehow. Our song was of tea parties and scraped knees, of adventures and girl scouts. A sweet refrain played in my head of touching my daughter’s confidently clothed belly, swollen with a lovesong of her own. Heather Carnaghan
I smile at the newborn’s first coos and the delicious softness of her peach fuzz hair against my cheek. I am drunk on the smell of sweet, sour milk and so much life to live. Your hair was fine. A single lock was spared by the nurses before your perfect puckered mouth and round cheeks were turned to ash. My consolation prize was taped to ugly paper with an uninspired border that was haphazardly off-center. Why does she get a lifetime of smoothing sleep-dampened hair and frilly bows but I am left with 37 taped strands and a tear-stained box of cinders? I didn’t spill a single tear on her pink and wriggling infant. I saved them all for the desperate ride home camouflaging jagged, jealous thoughts and raw eyes behind unnecessary sunglasses. Heather Carnaghan
These woods are full of death of fallen oaks and ungrown seeds, those miscarriages of the earth. Decaying trunks one hundred rings thick are strewn across the mossy floor. I sit on ancestors and wonder how many have fallen before. Does the Earth mourn the crushed sapling or the masticated seed? Does her molten core break like mine when blight strikes the new growth? Could my single tear be the definitive drop a thirsty leaf needs to weather the desolate winter? |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
August 2018
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