Yesterday, I set up a shelf in my living room that celebrates all my twin babies were and would have been. Purple and yellow objects, a tiny little print of Alexanders footprints, an empty vase to symbolise what I never got to see of Simon, some little silly toys, a family photo, a fertility goddess, a tiki-tiki protector from Hawaii, two small candles, a sculpture, a little handmade bowl with two tiny amethyst rocks nestled inside, an empty hummingbirds nest...the list goes on.
I sat on the couch this morning for a moment looking at the display, my heart twinging sharply in my chest. I got up determined to light the candles that I had tried to light the night before. I had thought that maybe it was just a quirk...but...I stood there with a lighted match poised at the wick and the flame would rise, and then, slowly extinguish. I tried again, and again. A brief moment of yellow flame...and then...nothing.
I started to cry when I ran out of matches. The candles would not support a sustainable flame. Just like my babies--they just--went out.
There was a visable wick. No reason for this to be happening. It should have held the fire. But, it just wouldn't.
Nothing I did helped.
The candles would not burn.
My babies are dead.
I should be 7 months pregnant now. Full of the life of two babies. I should have been dancing on the solstice in the light of a bonfire instead of sobbing in the rain in the tall grass. A birth Goddess. I should be preparing my home for the sweetness of baby joy.
I should be round and full instead of empty.
The candles should not have failed to burn. That isn't how it's supposed to be.
This can't be how it all ends...this journey of mothering can't be over in this way...
There should be a way to brighten this tear stained path.