Death of A Child
She ran her fingers
through her child’s hair.
A curl descended
on the child’s forehead
and the mother blew at it.
The curl flew off and then
bounced back playfully.
The mother stared at the curl,
The only sign of liveliness now
in that lifeless body.
Body, she shuddered at the word.
When did my child become a body,
she wondered?
The nurse came and tried to rouse her
but she shrugged her off.
She needed some more time
with her baby.
The attached wires and tubes
were finally taken off and
she bent over and took
the baby into her arms
and rocked her gently.
She crooned
an old lullaby
in a broken voice.
A nurse stifled a sob
and fled from the room.
But the mother hummed on,
heedless to the activity
around her:
The machines being put away,
the wires being set in their place,
the tubes being cleaned,
all being made ready
for the next occupant.
The Catholic nurse on duty
suddenly turned from the scene
and blinked back tears
as she saw the similarity
with the Pieta.*
The mother whispered
sweet things
into the child’s ears
as if she were
promising a treat.
She realised the pain
of not knowing,
but believing
what the eyes
could not now behold.
Her child was at peace somewhere
beyond her grasp, alive and well.
She greedily took in
the features of the still child
knowing she must leave soon.
Her heart, however,
ached and twisted
and seemed not to understand
the urgency of the
nurses in the room.
So she ignored all the sounds around her
and wrapped her arms tighter still
willing life into the child,
Willing God to put things right,
To give life to the dead.
Nothing happened.
The mother uttered a long sigh,
Grief flooded her senses.
The nurses came rushing to her
As her body was wracked with sobs,
Very gently, delicately,
they took away the baby
Then led the mother
to the place where
The rest of the family waited.
They mourned together
in a huddle
Drawing life from each other,
The pain of their loss
was sharp and hurting
But the mother gathered herself
quicker than the others
Her moments with the child
had given her a grace,
A sense of peace.
It now uplifted her very soul
She looked radiant almost,
as she led the family to the chapel.
“Come let’s thank the Lord
for the gift of our girl,” she said.
*The Pieta is a marble sculpture by Michelangelo depicting a surprisingly youthful Mary with the lifeless body of Jesus in her arms
through her child’s hair.
A curl descended
on the child’s forehead
and the mother blew at it.
The curl flew off and then
bounced back playfully.
The mother stared at the curl,
The only sign of liveliness now
in that lifeless body.
Body, she shuddered at the word.
When did my child become a body,
she wondered?
The nurse came and tried to rouse her
but she shrugged her off.
She needed some more time
with her baby.
The attached wires and tubes
were finally taken off and
she bent over and took
the baby into her arms
and rocked her gently.
She crooned
an old lullaby
in a broken voice.
A nurse stifled a sob
and fled from the room.
But the mother hummed on,
heedless to the activity
around her:
The machines being put away,
the wires being set in their place,
the tubes being cleaned,
all being made ready
for the next occupant.
The Catholic nurse on duty
suddenly turned from the scene
and blinked back tears
as she saw the similarity
with the Pieta.*
The mother whispered
sweet things
into the child’s ears
as if she were
promising a treat.
She realised the pain
of not knowing,
but believing
what the eyes
could not now behold.
Her child was at peace somewhere
beyond her grasp, alive and well.
She greedily took in
the features of the still child
knowing she must leave soon.
Her heart, however,
ached and twisted
and seemed not to understand
the urgency of the
nurses in the room.
So she ignored all the sounds around her
and wrapped her arms tighter still
willing life into the child,
Willing God to put things right,
To give life to the dead.
Nothing happened.
The mother uttered a long sigh,
Grief flooded her senses.
The nurses came rushing to her
As her body was wracked with sobs,
Very gently, delicately,
they took away the baby
Then led the mother
to the place where
The rest of the family waited.
They mourned together
in a huddle
Drawing life from each other,
The pain of their loss
was sharp and hurting
But the mother gathered herself
quicker than the others
Her moments with the child
had given her a grace,
A sense of peace.
It now uplifted her very soul
She looked radiant almost,
as she led the family to the chapel.
“Come let’s thank the Lord
for the gift of our girl,” she said.
*The Pieta is a marble sculpture by Michelangelo depicting a surprisingly youthful Mary with the lifeless body of Jesus in her arms
Truly touching.
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