Our son has died, we can't know why
There's so much time to weep and sigh.
His time on Earth was all too short,
He did not have the life he ought.
And yet my heart is filled with joy,
When I but think of our baby boy.

His skin was flawless, he felt warm,
So like his Daddy in his form.
His hair was light, and soft like down,
We never had to see him frown.
He felt so lovely in my arms,
Our perfect child, with all his charms.

Our son has gone, we can't reach there,
It seems too great a grief to bear.
He's with our God, and many friends,
We'll all be joined at our lives' ends.
For now, when I feel that I can't cope,
I think of him, he is my hope.

Please don't say

Please don't say to me "You're young"
I feel I'm ninety-two.
This loss has made me twice my age,
And yet much younger too.
Late twenties may seem young to you,
With many years ahead,
But please just for a moment
Consider this instead:
My son was born and lived 12 hours.
That isn't very long.
In fact I think its fair to say
He was very, very young.
Our age gives no protection from what may come to pass,
Our life, dreams, hope, and future more fragile than any glass.

What do you get…

What do you get when your baby dies?
Condolences and platitudes that sound just like lies.
You cannot believe them, and neither would they
If they stopped for a moment to think what they say.

What do you get when your baby dies?
Memories that burn you and cut you like knives.
You long to remember with joy in your heart,
But remembering means its over and it should be the start.

What do you get when your baby dies?
An empty, bare crib where no baby cries.
Your home should be filled with new noises and sounds,
But its only lost hope you hear echo around.

What do you get when your baby dies?
Photos and keepsakes in place of their life.
You yearn for their warmth, but the things that you hold
Feel both fragile and precious, and so few, and so cold.

What do you get when your baby dies?
A lifetime to wonder and ask yourself why.
You want to believe that Life can't be so cruel,
But you know it's a game where there aren't any rules.

What do you get when your baby dies?
Savage, shameful feelings that crush your insides.
Anger and guilt, frustration and fear,
As you're silently screaming "Why am I here?"

What do you get when your baby dies?
Nothing you dreamed of, and no reasons why.
A future that's stolen, endless pain and despair,
The knowledge that what's broken is impossible to repair.

The Carpark

Traffic Sounds, and sometimes trains.
The summer sun, and summer rains.
A gentle breeze within the trees,
So much to feel, but not much to see.
Sometimes for minutes, and sometimes for hours,
No resisting the pull, I am called by its power.
The images fill me, many good, many bad.
The memories too, sometimes happy, often sad.
I think of what's happened, the loss of our son.
The weight makes me stay but I so want to run.
I so want to hold him, to touch his soft skin.
I've so much love for him, I can't keep it in.
But there's clothes and a blanket, in place of our boy,
And beautiful photos for a lifetime of joy.
I sit here and think, while the world carries on,
For what possible reason is our son gone?
And sometimes I wonder, as I sit in this place,
What to do with the feelings that cause me such disgrace.
I long to forgive, but who, what and how?
To feel happy again in the here and the now.
If wishing and hoping were only the cure,
I could heal myself now and move forward once more.
But what can I wish for when nothing seems real?
The impossible's happened, that wasn't the deal.
And so here I sit in a place "we" once knew,
Like the bank of a river I watch my feelings pass through.
Sometimes I'm caught by the current and swell,
I'm desperate for help but I'm too weak to yell.
Other times I am calm, I can see through the pain
To a time when our days will be happy again.
I can see a ghost me walking up to the door,
Joyful and anxious, its happening once more.
Being in this carpark is all I can do
To let out all the feelings that I have to go through

Threes

At three minutes old my son, as yet unnamed, had been taken into another's
arms for help I could not give him.

At three hours old he was returned to my arms in exchange for my hope.
We baptised him, Alasdair MacKinnon Love, and entrusted his life to God's care.

For three hours we held our beautiful, perfect son, without the tubes which
had sustained his life, and heard his own true voice.

On the third day after our son was born we returned to the room where we had held him.
We were given a "box of memories", and we made his short life official.

Three weeks after our son was born, I longed for a knock at the door,
a visitor with our son in their arms, none came.

After three months I feel the loss of our son as raw as the first day.
I feel trapped and despairing.

In three year's I may have other children, brothers or sisters for Alasdair,
but I will feel no less the emptiness where he should be.
I will see other children of his age, and wonder if he too would laugh and play as they do.

In three decades I may be a grandmother, his siblings grown to be parents themselves.
I will look at them, and at their children, and wonder at the man he would have become.

What do I Mean to You?

The first time we met I was nervous and scared, but I wanted you to like me.
Could you tell?

You were confident and knowledgeable, I was impressed and inspired.
Did you know?

Each time we met you gave me something, more than I can express in words,
and beyond any thanks I can offer.
Was that just routine for you?

When my mind became troubled with concerns a few patient words, or a gesture,
or a comment from you brought relief.
Were you even aware of it?

When my world was shattered you remained constant.
Did you know how much I needed you?

My tragedy has touched you too, and I long to hear you speak of your feelings,
what Alasdair means to you. I feel my son alive when you speak his name.
Do you feel him too?

At times you must be away from me and I feel your absence deep inside.
As well as my need for you I am also concerned.
What is happening to you?

The future is difficult to see, a fragile and wispy vision,
but when I dare to dream of joy I think of sharing it with you.
Will you share your future too?

It seems so apparent in the things that you do but sometimes I wonder:
What do I mean to you?