By Kristie Shulman
HAND of Santa Cruz County

A river of fluid gushes from my body.
I’m deflating,
dissolving into the emptiness…
The evacuation has begun.

Seven long months, two to go,
and you have died inside my womb.
There must be some mistake…
It can’t be over!
We haven’t even met yet!

But when you come,
there is no cry.
My silent son, why have you left me?
I have so many plans for you,
so many dreams…
How can this tiny body, so perfect,
be so cold?

In an instant you are gone,
swept out with the tide,
into the great expanse,
my arms helpless to retrieve you.
And with you,
part of me leaves too.

I am an empty vessel,
aching to be filled up with your life,
to once again feel your kicks and turns,
and see my belly bulging with your growth.

I need to fill this gaping hole, this void.
My womb is vacant, my arms empty.
I long for your warm soft skin
and sweet new-baby smell
that I never knew,
and never will.

Even now, months later,
I sometimes think I feel your kicks,
and recall our time together…
Our private communion,
mother and child.

Kristie Shulman wrote this in 1996 in memory of her son, Daniel Shulman, stillborn December 1, 1995