Friday afternoon.

I look up and realize the building is quiet. Lights are off, doors are closed. So familiar we are with each other that we no longer say goodbye, have a nice weekend, see you Monday.

Just, suddenly, I am one of the only ones left.

It is this way with the babylost community, it seems. Blogs go down, mothers stop updating. A baby is born, the announcement a final post. Time passes and grief’s screams quiet to whispers, the occasional sob. The words trickle away.

It is not quite two years since Joseph died and those who have walked this timeline with me have fallen away.

I have fallen away.

I remember when Joseph first died I read hungrily. I went back over and over and over to the same writers who helped me find my way through grief, and I was so angry when they stopped writing. Because I needed them, I didn’t understand that they no longer needed those like me. The lost. The babylost.

I rarely visit the community anymore. It is too hard to read the new stories of loss. I scroll through blogrolls and comments and I don’t recognize the names anymore. My cohort has come and gone. Most without saying goodbye.

It’s not intentional, this quiet. It just is.

Sometimes, when I have a moment, I indulge the sadness. I take a walk. I sit at the computer on a rare solitary evening and open my heart, check the tender places, whisper Joseph’s name.

And Finn. And Little Sun. And Peregrine, and Anja, and others.

I remember.

© Burning Eye


4 thoughts on “quiet

  1. Juliet says:

    Yes. This. Thank you for including his name too.

  2. Aurelia says:

    I read this post two days ago and it has stuck with me. It made me sad. I still visit Glow regularly, but I don’t engage very often. When I see a blog post by someone with a similar timeline, I rush to read it. I still crave the sharing, still want to compare notes on how things are now. It’s harder to make the room, to push the active living aside for the grief. I’m grateful that you acknowledged this quiet, even though it makes me sad.

  3. Thank you, Burning Eye, for writing her name. Sometimes I don’t know if I feel quiet, or quieted. By my own self-censoring, by fear of offending, by resentment of that fear of offending. Life changes and joy comes into it but the grief lasts and there has to be a way to acknowledge all of it. It surprises me, suddenly, some new bitterness that I am trying to let go of…maybe it’s October. There seems to be something about October.

  4. Christine's Mom says:

    Yes, the quiet. I find myself in such a strange place these days, trying to sift through the rubble that is my evolving grief mixed in with the trauma of Christine’s little brother’s birth. I’m still trying to figure out what I am feeling, and what exactly it is that I need as I approach two years without Christine. In some ways the quieting has been good, but I find it’s a lonely place. And still so much sadder than I would like.

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