Still

We anticipate the hope and expectations to remain neatly packaged in a small parcel. For what else does it mean to expect?

But what is the proper response to a birth which is…still? We call it a birth even when life no longer animates the tiny members of our…expected.

Her face ashen with the pain that still accompanies this process. Her body jolts instinctually; directed into crushing rhythms orchestrated by knowledge only nature enjoys.
She has no time to cry. The strength required to assist this process empties the reservoir of her energy. So tears remain tucked away; unspoken, but not unheard. What could ever be the redemption in this?

Her body grinds in protest of its delicate occupant, and her fists cling to the cold bars of the bed. She wonders if she can slip away; if there is a way, also, for her to be still.
An incredulous scream unfurls from the brokenness of her heart as she yields to the undulating breaks in silence.

And then, he’s here. The air remains still. He’s here. The place of his arrival drops in temperature. He’s here, but already gone.

Her lips inquire ‘why’ as her tears baptize her infant son. He’s here, but already no more. And the questions of existence assault her delicate faith as she desperately implores the absent sky to show her the same dismissal.

Life is too silent. The cries are too still. And hope…well for her an abomination.