“Every parting gives a foretaste of death;  every coming together again a foretaste of the resurrection” – Arthur Schopenhaur

I look at a picture,
Or the faces
Of my sons
And my heart swells

I admire the deep dimples
In my youngest son
Or the sprinkle of freckles
Across the nose
Of my oldest son

I look at a picture
Of my daughter
And I feel
Like I might die.
I lose my breath.
My chest hurts.
My throat constricts
My stomach turns over.

I want to scream.

I look at my sons
And I smile.
I giggle at their similarities

I look at my daughter
And her similarity
To my sons
And I want to smash
The computer monitor.

I want shards of glass
To pierce my eyes
So I don’t have to see
The face
That I cannot touch.

I despise the fact
That I look at her beautiful
Amazing face
And I cry
I scream.
I rage.

I look at my
Easter pictures
With family
And sons
And jelly beans
And bunnies
And I laugh.

I look at
Her Easter pictures
Labeled “my family”
“My mother”
“My cute grandfather”
And I feel like I might vomit.

What can I do?
With this anger?
This grief?
Where do you put it?
How do you smile
For the child
In front of you
When you are dying inside
For the one taken from you?

Many would tell me
(and have)
To go on, get over it,
Appreciate the ones you have
Stop wasting time
On the ones you don’t.

They don’t understand.
It doesn’t work that way.

You cannot forget
You cannot go on
Each day
Each smile
Each holiday

The pain
Like Christ
Is resurrected
In every picture.

1 Thought.

  1. I had a bad adoption day. And tonight, I said to my husband, “So, today was a bad adoption day. How poorly did I mask it in front of the boys and your mom?” He responded a bit surprised and said that I did well in masking it. I’m relieved that I pulled it off and as much relieved that tomorrow is not a holiday.

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