It was a Thursday, a week and a half ago. I was working. When I did realize it, three days later, I didn’t even really feel badly about it. It’s okay. Maybe even a good thing.
But that doesn’t make it gone. The pain has eased a great deal, and being pregnant in no small way alleviates that loss. Looking forward in hope helps me not look backward in grief, but the grief is still there. the loss is still very real.
Perhaps no more so than these couple of weeks: a time of year when, more than any other, I’m reflecting on life and death, how they are woven together, how one feeds into the other, like a dog chasing his own tail. Sometimes death, never redemptive or salvific on its own, but transformative in context, sometimes death brings new and more abundant life. Always life, whether long or short, celebrated or glossed over, always life bends toward death.
And this little life I now carry, unknown but deeply cherished, would not be possible had not that other life, even more unknown, half as developed, and yet no less cherished, been lost.
And so, thank you, my unknown child, my little lost one, for the gift of your life, and of your death, and of this new life. Anniversaries and dates on the calendar may pass unmarked, but you did not.