My baby was stillborn, but still born.
In a cool white hospital room where so many had been born before. My body trembled and shook as his body worked its way out of my womb and into the hands of a doctor. He was void of breath, of sound, of movement, but he was still born.
My baby was stillborn, but still lived.
In the darkness of my womb. The outline of his body was visible against the darkness of the screen, his presence undeniable. The sound of his heartbeat drowned out the sound of mine as I watched his limbs flail, his heart flutter. He never took a breath in the cradle of my arms, only in the cradle of my womb. He didn’t live to see the light, but he still lived.
My baby was stillborn, but still mattered.
In conception and in death, he changed me. He changed the course of my existence and is woven into the fabric of my family. He was created with purpose and love, leaving an imprint on my heart. He has a name and while it’s not known among the masses, he still mattered.
My baby was stillborn, but was still loved.
In the stillness of a quiet hospital room I studied his small body, perfectly formed, but lifeless. His heart was as still as the rocking chair, the air. But my heart was not. My heart continued to beat, to love. He never loved me back, but he was still loved.
By baby was stillborn, but is still missed.
In winter and summer. In spring and fall. At sunrise and sunset. The passage of time has not erased his existence or my memory of him. The presence of his siblings has not removed the veil of his absence. Their lives have not replaced his. My baby is gone, but is still missed.
And always will be.