the pictures I didn't take

It snowed last night.  Even when you know

to expect it, there is something so surprising

about waking up in a world that looks so different

than the one you fell asleep in.

My parents have both asked me in the last few days;

have you been writing about all of this?

And I haven't.

I've put together phrases in my head

and I've thought a lot about writing

as my imagined version of the next year

shifts and remakes itself.

I haven't taken pictures either, though

I have all these images in mind

of pictures I didn't take 

over the last eight weeks.

The image of myself

standing at the bathroom sink

holding the test and breathing

out one quiet expletive 

as I watched the tiny screen change.

Or the list of names

held to the refrigerator with a magnet, 

written in Amelia's neat

handwriting.  The soft fleece

of a tiny sweater that I'd packed away

years ago.  Smiling and 

thinking how I hadn't planned

to need it again.

Or sitting in the the waiting room,

knowing before anyone else did

that something wasn't right, 

that the tiny ocean I carried inside

was a much quieter place

than it should have been.

Or the way my body refused

to loosen its grip, and the strange

days of waiting for an ending.

I am raking leaves and waiting to miscarry.

I am splitting firewood and waiting to miscarry.

I am lying awake in bed waiting to miscarry.

Then finally the surgery,

the sweet nurses who said they were sorry,

the white round lights of the operating room,

the bits of memory wiped clean with anesthesia,

that slowly resurfaced

hours or days later.

Or thinking it was all finally over

the moment my dr. called to tell me

there could be dangerous cells

that were left behind, there will be 

testing and more testing 

ahead.

How do you feel?

Really, the simplest words are best.

Sad.

Mad.

I don't know.

I'm reminding myself that now is not the time

for grand decisions

but all I want is for something to change,

it feels like not enough

to simply pick up

where my life left off

in October.

I have the utmost faith in time.

I know I will feel differently in a week,

or a month.  But I'm trying to tell myself

that's it's okay to not let this go yet.

As my friend, Sarah, wrote me, I need 

"to sit and feel what I'm feeling - let it

weave and wave its way out."

The snow is still falling,

a bit lighter now.

Just this, stopping to put it all

into words

was what I needed.

To give these weeks the weight they deserve,

to hold them until 

they are not so heavy

and I can carry them

with something like grace.