The Disorder of Things
By Lorna Rose
Birthdays, holidays, Mother’s Days hang heavy.
They feel cold and damp.
They are reminders of days past.
Conversations with your oldest are hard.
“Mom, am I still a big brother?”
It’s ok to explain.
Baby showers are bittersweet.
You’re happy, and yet – that used to be you, celebrating a budding belly.
It’s ok to grieve.
You love others entirely
In honor of the absent.
It’s ok to heal.
Know that you will see him again someday,
hold his little hand.
You will be together, and natural order
Will return and forever remain.
It’s ok to believe.
(This poem first appeared in Mothers Always Write.)