No one prayed while I paced the path between the sink and the bath tub.
No one sang “It Is Well” when I birthed you into a watery grave.
No one held my hand as I flushed you away,
twenty-seven weeks away from a timely birth.
No one brought a light luncheon to the 3 am vigil in a bathroom.
Your father and brother slept on,
not knowing you had come and gone.
No one sent flowers.
No one offered condolences.
Because funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living and the living never met you.
