My children come to me in the night.
I hear their thin, airy voices calling
my name, and it startles me awake.
Each one lost before the fourth month,
All ignored except by me, but know this:
They had names, futures, destinies,
but I never got to hold them.
It wasn’t spoken of
after the deadening
of you’ll have another and
there must have been something
wrong with the baby.
I didn’t have another,
and all these years I have mourned
alone, silently, and without comfort.
Still, I hear their voices,
I imagine their dimpled baby hands,
Their graduations and weddings.
And I wait for them to come to me
in the night when all is quiet,
as their angels gather around my bed,
and they call my name.
Art: Richmond, VA 2014 by Virginia Galfo