Stillbirth
On a platform, I heard someone call out your name: No, Laetitia, no. It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing, but I rushed in, searching for your face. But no Laetitia. No. No one in that car could have been you, but I rushed in, searching for your face: no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two. No one in that car could have been you. Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen. No longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two: I sometimes go months without remembering you. Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen: I was told not to look. Not to get attached— I sometimes go months without remembering you. Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space. I was told not to look. Not to get attached. It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing. Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space. On a platform, I heard someone calling your name.
