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You were conceived in spring fever,
amidst a private garden of blooming flowers.
The first stirring came Palm Sunday –
too tiny to be felt, but a mother knows.

I lay back with my hands caressing where
you grew, imagining your toothless grin,
your pudgy thighs, holding you, rocking you.
They said around Christmas -it seemed the right
time for a miracle. It was meant to be

until

the great flood came and I lie crying on the floor;
the loneliness,
the emptiness,
the loss

overcoming me.

You came and went before
we could know you, and
soon most forgot that
you were here,

that you lived, if only briefly, inside me,
and had your own story that was so crudely
finished before even the introduction written,
before I could find my defenses and fight for you.

They said,

I was barely pregnant
there’ll be another
it was nothing, really

but you were here.

No one grieves a life so brief as the mother
whose love has already committed to forever.

A part of me is lost, with you. Where you are.
I will never see your smile. I will never hold you.
I will never hear your laugh or ruffle your hair.
No one remembers. But I remember.
You mattered and
you were here