Author’s Note: stillborn and stillbirth.
you make a soul.
you made love with the walls of Mama’s womb. you shared a space I lived in alone for nine months years later. you played, you built and you bubbled her womb with strength and love for us, knowing there were going to be many to pay her with love and kick her when happy and dance to the rough music she favored during pregnancy.
did you taste her hope? when she shared her love with you through the umbilical cord? did you float when her hope minced with your despair? did you know, Mama didn’t know?
she thought her baby was heavier than all the other babies.
she didn’t know there were two.
she flew with hope under her wings for her first baby.
but she had enough to take two under her wings.
you left her almost like those ungrateful inhabitants leaving abruptly, angry with the tenant before she could see you.
you both lay on Papa’s arms: one for you and one for you.
you slept throughout.
he named you and he named you.
he laid you
under the sands buried you prayed for you
a seed of love sprouted where you slept touched by his tears.
do you know, you make him proud?
he always said,
“they would be taller than me equally strong carrying me if I were to fall. I would have had one right here,” beneath his left, “and one right here,” beneath his right;
“if they were to have seen the light of our world.”
he is proud of us too. he loves his girls like he loves you both.
I love you too.
do you love me?
Papa always said,
“don’t you worry. they are two of the birds in heaven and they have already saved a space for you, and for her.”
I believe Papa.
and I know you love me with a burn like the one that Papa’s hot tea leaves on my tongue.
Amalia Abbar is a gal of many words but with very less time on her fingers and toes. She often tends to give the impression that being a part-time ghostwriter and freelance content writer makes her your nonpareil perfectionist writer; when that’s not the case at all! She is constantly battling an army of insecurities, while trying to support her writing empire with debilitating arms, deriving strength from her clandestine affair with words. If a Brooding Amalia is not munching or crunching on Dickinson’s or Plath’s poetry, then she is probably cooking stories in her own head.