It is flat, my belly.
No mound, no swell, no ripple, no pucker.
My hand slips over,
willing a curve to build,
craving the tap-tap of promise.
Tears pool in the crease of
a mouth that is a flat line.
No curve, no turn, no flash of dimple.
My emotions are so dulled, so dimmed,
No sparkle, no thrill, no eagerness,
The budding excitement flattened into nothing.
I live a life of
I should have been seven months pregnant today, my friends.
The twentieth of each month is hard for me, as ridiculous as that might be. I mean, really, the odds that my baby would have actually been born on September 20th are slim to none but, still, I ache when that number pops up on my calendar.
Even I, with my tendency to carry tiny, would have had a little bump by now. I would have felt those blessed somersaults and would (finally!) have had people asking me if I was expecting.
But instead I work out. I smile for the world and say “thank you” when people tell me how impressive my flat tummy is.
I would trade it in a heartbeat.
I don’t want it.
I want that baby who I will never, ever have.
And I’m so, so sorry to dump all this out there. Because I know– I KNOW– that people expect me to have moved on. No one ever, ever mentions the baby I lost. I don’t expect them to– I know they probably don’t want to upset me. But not talking about her doesn’t make her less real. And it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen…
I’ll smile again tomorrow. I promise. But today, the heart-wrenching twentieth, I’m just going to put one foot in front of the other as I walk this flat walk.