She sits alone in the bright yellow room. The faint smell of baby powder still lingering in the air. The mobile hanging limply above the crib, as if it too had been robbed of life.

Robbery. There was no other way to describe it. Here one moment, snatched out of your arms the next. Swift and silent, you only had to blink your eyes and that which you held dear was gone.
Death.
A crime without justice.

She had loved him.
From that very first moment when the nurse had placed him, bloody and screaming in her arms, complaining at this sudden removal from his cocoon, she had loved him.
Through 2am feeding times and 8pm playtimes, she had loved him.
As his tiny body grew cold, she had loved him.
Even as the light dimmed in his eyes, she prayed and she loved.
Neither had been enough.

A dark wet spot appears on the front of her t-shirt; it is feeding time. A rebellion by her body, a harsh refusal to accept what she cannot change. He's gone. She can almost feel the pull of his mouth as he suckles on her nipple; the weight of him in her arms. She sees him looking up at her with eyes full of wonder and hope. Beautiful blue eyes full of life.

And just like that, he is in her arms again. She's rocking him slowly, singing him a lullaby. The soft whisper of her voice the only sound in the empty room, as she soothes the son that only she can see...

"Hush little baby,
don't say a word,
mommy's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."

Wow..Beautiful write..

Thank you

Took me a while to figure out what this meant... Thank you, and for all the others too.

That is very touching. I think anyone who knows anyone who lost a child can relate to that.

I don't know anyone who's lost a child, but I found that after I lost my mom every loss seemed personal; whether I knew the deceased or not.