The Little Middle One
She’s the middle one,
the one everyone cries over,
the one nobody talks about.
Buried like a pumpkin seed.
Put a flat rock on top.
No name.
Just numbers.
A date.
An stillborn child does something
to woman, it’s a blade of wind
that cuts right through. Ain’t pretty.
Written for an Image prompt: Café of Imaginary Dreams ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter.
So sad. I don’t know how people cope with that grief – a grief that is kind of hidden from the world.
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I guess by hidden (and I haven’t personally experienced it) I meant that nobody except the parents have had a chance to build any sort of relationship with this little person. So it feels like the grieving might be quite lonely. The expectation crushed is bad enough. But the grieving…
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It's Still Life 
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