I never saw her, my daughter, my Heather
I felt her prenatal kicks; I patted my belly
Named her Little Harry Eagleclaw
She liked my rocking chair, I think
Kicking when I would pause to stop
She died, bones crushed by the weight of her own body fluids
A mystery, they said, so sad, they said, you'll have another, they said.
I nodded, the always acquiescent essence of a good girl
Not willing to bother anyone, for a matter so small.
Until one morning, when the sun came up a little slanted
Illuminating the white hot fierceness of loss
I moaned and wailed and beat my fists upon the walls
Demanding retribution, demanding an accounting
Demanding God to show himself, to strike me dead
And when I was done, God being silent
I lay spent, alive, yet not, pieces of my soul released and gone forever
Buried with my perfect monster child, my daughter, my baby, my Heather.
© 14 Nov 2021, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder
