The following piece is the sad companion to one I wrote a number of years ago entitled "Fatherly Grief".
Lying next to me, I know that Her restlessness comes most Acutely In the middle of the night. The pillow beneath her head and her body move Gently in rhythm with the quiet Sobs And questioning supplications. Augustine eventually said, "Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is Restless Until it finds its rest in thee." Did Monica then pray beforehand, "Thou hast made him through me, O Lord, and my heart will be Restless Until he finds his rest in thee"? I witnessed the awe of birth, and its ending; The cutting of the binding cord that gave Life, When mother's blood was child's own. But, no matter the number of yearly remembrances, An unseen tie still remains, wishing Life For the child needing another birth. O, what awful pain some mothers endure when They stand by a child's grave! The unnatural Reversal Bringing unbearable grief, unimaginable grief. Do promise and time truly help? Does knowing a child is Living though dead help dull the ache, ever Reverse Unending waves of sorrow and loss? The book of wisdom speaks of a similar Grief other mothers must bear; of a child living yet Dead, Not caring that earthly pleasure brings endless pain elsewhere. This maternal distress does not diminish, each passing day Sending continual waves, greater fears of Death, That time does not quell and promise can seem to mock. The apostle had no greater joy than seeing A child walking in truth. Is there then Sorrow No greater than a mother staring at the other side? So I hold her tight, whispering hope to her in the dark, "Certain stories keep turning pages before Joy Comes with the morning light." Finally, the drowning wave is held off once again and Fitful sleep returns. For in her bosom remains still the Pangs, A silent labor with unknown end. He told us the cost, yet the separation of Child from mother caused by his Sword Pierces even as she clings desperately to it.