Yes, I'm fine
At least on a cerebral level.
I trust the Lord.
And I can make plans and French toast and start the dishwasher and make a grocery list.

That's progress. That's not nothing.

But my mind is no longer safe.
In the spaces of the night,
the shards of memory and forgetting pierce me equally. Every room of our house contains landmines.  

When some well-intentioned well-wisher asks the wrong question,
my pulpy heart is still shredded and ****** just below the surface.

And yes, I'm angry.
Not with God,
not with fate,
but maybe with you.

Kindly allow me to grieve.
Allow me to take the space that I need without having to justify it.
Don't ask me about work.
Don't ask me if I cry.
Don't ask me why I think my baby died and who I blame.
Don't ask me to demonstrate my sadness to you in a coffeeshop, in a bathroom, in our front yard.

I promise, we are devastated.
Our lives will never be the same,
never be the bright future that we imagined for our family.
And I'll always wonder why we couldn't keep him alive.
I don't need you to tell me it was not my fault.
We are without guile- we couldn't have loved him or cared for him any more,

but the fact remains that it was not enough.

Please allow us :
to feel
and reveal
and conceal that as we wish-
it feels like that at least is more attainable than wishing our sweet baby could come back to life.
Or wishing we could join him
and be put out of this breathtaking misery, this sword of Damocles that anyone can trigger without warning or even knowledge of their ramifications.

Yes, we are fine.

Pt 2
You cannot come with us-
You cannot help.
For some reason, this pain has been appointed to us.
We have been entrusted with this loss.
We must be stewards of grief- reflecting hope while our earthly dreams are shattered.
Looking for good when we feel shrouded by the pit of despair.