One year ago today 
the whole world pointed at a different north star.
I thought in five year plans and tomorrows
and without fail 
my sentences ended in exclamation.
Your perfect name 
was forever affixed to my plans for you.
Those mountains we'd climb
together
were permanent too
like the paint on your nursery wall.
How shocking
isn't it
that one year can teach us
to see the tilt in the axis, 
the humanity in a whale,
and mountains 
that are no more permanent than you nor I.

​Every grieving mother watches
intently,
sadly,
hopefully,
as the world learns more
of grief
from a whale
than their neighbor.
10 days
10 weeks
10 months
10 years
If I am meant to live ten lifetimes without you,
Little Whale,
Little Fox,
I shall still be found
lifting you up.

From an outside perspective
I am certain
these milestones have no meaning.


The 21st is just a day
like the 20th before it.


In the beautiful Before
I missed them too.


I never commemorated 
Jack's third word
or recognized Sam's tenth curl
but today, I know,
marks nine months since her death,
Nine months 
since she was nine months inside of me.


Tomorrow I will have grieved 
for one day longer 
than my daughter's entire life.

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

You are the negative space
in every picture,
absent, 
black and empty
against the bright whites
of their toothy grins
and colorful vitality.

You are the quiet reflection
in the rogue moments
between my meticulous words,
the sharp intake of air
after pregnant pauses 
and faraway stares.

You are the deliberation
behind each breath
as I dubiously opt
to go on breathing. ​