still

Our youngest child was stillborn.

The words catch me off guard…still.

There is a restlessness about me…still. I am busying myself with life – giving it socks. I’m going for it, whatever ‘it’ is, and it is filling up my time. But at night when I climb into bed, the other ‘it’ is there…still…like dye, drifting through my unconscious conscious…and I find it hard to be…still.

I look at the stack of books, books that say I love to read, but the trained eye, or the return visitor to our bedroom, would tell you they are untouched for over seven months now. It feels like a crime, a whole new guilty secret – my youngest child was stillborn and now I do not/cannot read.

I can lose hours staring at pictures on the great vast interweb, but I cannot read. Skipping over pictures idly accommodates my drifting restlessness. To read I must be still, give focus, stay with…what?

I am tired. Tired of daughter death – Wake up, butterfly.

Tired of living with it…still.

Tired of being busy being. Tired of not being…still.

Tired of climbing into bed restless.

Wake up, butterfly –
it’s late, we’ve miles
to go together.

Basho

Be still and know…