Written by Natalie Standig
Why don’t the grieving don’t get a room of our own?
A room for the mothers in mourning
Where we can weep in privacy.
Instead
We have to sit with the others
Alone and exposed
No spouses allowed,
No one to hold our hands.
And stare at the protruding bellies
As they walk in and exit
with their blooming sonograms in hand.
The mothers in mourning can’t help but notice
expressions of delight as they glide by.
Why her, and not me?
The juxtaposition seems brutish.
I sit here, slumped down
And feel resentment, disdain, and then more
Resentment and disdain
For feeling such.
Sunglasses on
Mask on
My face couldn’t be more covered.
But somehow, one expectant mother caught my glare
And noticed my tear-stained cheeks.
And she knew.
What could she do but grab her belly?
Has she sat in my chair before?
Or was she merely grateful for her healthy baby,
And holding on?
The dreadful waiting room
Forces us to sit through this nightmare
Where time has wholly forgotten us
And observe all the miracles walking by
Which remind us so cruelly
That we’re still waiting.
