Wednesday, July 1, 2015


Do not exhale or
relax your
Do not be fooled by the
calm, his obedient vitals,
the mood of
Don't even think about sleep.
Stop believing he will
come home,
grow up,
no matter how likely
it was.
Dismantle the pile of prayers,
mop up the slobbering
from His unwilling feet. 
The eighty-five year old
with cancer,
the triplets born earlier and
much, much sicker,
the drug addict mother:
they will get their miracle.
Not him. 


  1. Oh Gretchen. I expected a miracle too. Not so much for myself as for her. I had no right to anything but she was blameless.
    And I guess I got . . . what . . half a miracle? Don't really believe in miracles anymore I suppose. It's all just random, random cruelty and random kindness. Makes me want to spend my days cowering underneath my bed sometimes.
    I'm sorry that Zachary didn't get his miracle. I wish he had.

    1. Thank you, Catherine. I think cowering may be the only option.

  2. I'm so greatful to read you, but so sad it is because of your son's death that I get to read you. I wish he was not dead.
    I 'm a doula, three days ago I learned that another baby died few minutes after he was born. I really wish that no more babies ever die. Even more so for the babies that are born alive and die just afterwards, it is so unfair.

  3. I have nothing to say but his name
    I am thinking of him, and you.

    1. Gosh, I love seeing someone else type out his name. Thank you, Typhaine.