Twelve years ago, on February 1, our son died.
The next day, February 2, he was born, still.
I know. It is backwards. There is nothing right about a child dying. Words often fail to capture our emotions. Either we cannot speak or there are no words. As a loving tribute to Zachariah, I share this poem.
Twelve Years Unspoken
Entering my favorite flower shop,
Passing by teddy bears and blankets,
I close my eyes, a prayer unspoken.
“Three yellow roses and baby’s breath, please.”
She says, “We have no baby’s breath.”
Appropriate, I suppose, since neither did he.
She offers other “little white flowers.”
But it is baby’s breath I long to see.
“Then just the roses.”
Reading my credit card, she pauses,
“Oh, I didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s OK,” I say.
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