Life and Death were taken from me.
When Life was taken – I was alone.
The world seemed to grow silent,
And everything looked fuzzy – as if I were only an observer looking through a filthy camera lens.
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
I wonder how many times they’ve said that to a woman half-reclined with a thin sheet draped over her bare legs and cold gel sticking to her inner thighs.
I could not help but look down in disbelief at the abdomen that would not be expanding any time soon.
Life was taken from me.
When Death was taken, I was at the hospital. The very same hospital in which I gave life two years prior, only now it was stained with the sterilized stench of Death.
I tried to smile when the nurse joked that the hospital-issue treaded socks covered an entire half of my petite legs.
I tried to reassure the well-meaning women who accompanied me that I was ok – when I really wanted to cry and scream and tell them they were poor substitutes for the husband who simply couldn’t be there to hold me during the taking of Death.
I was relieved when I fell asleep – only to wake up to a devastation that escaped audibly and uncontrollably from my throat.
Why did they have to see me cry?
Death was taken from me.
For long afterward, I would often reach down and touch the place that created and housed both Life and Death.
A new normality nestled itself against my existence.
Yet I still grieve the Death that took precious Life from me.