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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.


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.

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