what if grief is a she-bear roaring her rage at the careless hands of death? what if the anger colors everything? her tears blinding her until she can hardly see the tiny pads of precious toes, or the beautiful nail beds she’d so longed to admire? what if grief is the mouth of a she-bear’s cave in summer— hollow and quiet as an empty womb or a too tiny tomb? then, what should she do? I wish that I could simply say that spring will come again for the she-bear, and not all that’s lost is lost forever— but the truth never feels true when we need it most. so instead I’ll say, that perhaps she’ll spend a lonely summer crashing through the blackberries without smelling them. and perhaps she’ll forget her favorite fishing hole. perhaps the sunsets will fail to awe her, and the dawns will end her dreams too soon. but when at last, she’s let the tears fall, perhaps they’ll amount to something. perhaps they’ll coalesce into a trickle, and the trickle into a stream, and the stream into a river, and the river into a lake— and perhaps there by the peaceful edge where she bathes her heart in salt water, the movement of the water will lap against all her tattered and jagged memories and perhaps her heart will find a way to beat even with the pieces missing. and maybe then, one day when she least expects it, her eyes will clear enough to see the blackberries, and she’ll find a new spot for catching fish, and one day even, the sinking of the sun will shine off the lake of her tears in such a way that she’ll remember that beauty still exists— even here. and on that very day, along the muddy bank that lines the lake of all her tears, she’ll notice all at once a pair of tiny tracks the toe pads pressed into the earth just so— first a set here. then a few over there. before long, she’ll see them everywhere. and like the lightning bolt that starts the fire all at once the Truth will shock her with its luminance— there is more to a life than what our earthly arms can hold.
I wrote this poem last week for a reader of mine who suffered a stillbirth as a result of medical neglect and gaslighting. In the wake of such rage and anguish, there is so little I can do to make anything better, but she told me this poem perfectly captured her feelings and gave me permission to share.
If you know someone who has lost a child, be it through miscarriage, stillbirth, or other tragic circumstances—please feel free to share. The ache of loss cuts sharp like a knife, but sometimes poetry can help us put images to what feels nameless and faceless—and sometimes this helps, if only a little bit.
My book as the Sparrow flies also makes a great gift for someone who is grieving, and for a limited time, I am writing a personal note to each person who orders through my online store. You can also check out “ugly duckling” copies of my book, perfectly readable copies that simply have some minor printing errors, going for half the price while supplies last.
As always, thank you for being here.
Warmly,
Grace E. Kelley
Thank you so much for this. It’s beautiful.
Thank you for this 💛