By Carly Williams.
I’ve learned a new vocabulary.
Dead. Death. Dead baby. Stillbirth. Stillborn. Neonatal death. Miscarriage. Bereaved.
At times I surprise myself at the ease with which death rolls off my tongue.
This fresh plethora of words flows easily from my unsilenced lips, slips calmly from my soured mouth.
For some, my emerging voice rings discordant. I wear, for all to see, the dark grief of random loss. Who wants to look at me, when my son’s death reflects the frailty of all life? Who wants to hear a language they don’t ever want to learn?
Language spirals uselessly around the death of a child or baby. I watch as the eyes of observers dart around, in search of an alternative to my truth. There is no alternative.
My vocabulary is the truth, my truth. Continue Reading…