Four weeks ago today, Ewan was born.
Four weeks doesn't seem like that long -- less than a month. Just twenty-eight days. A whole lot of nothing can pass in twenty-eight days. Or twenty-eight days can span a lifetime, containing within it the whole of a human existence: birth, death, burial, and the span of human suffering in the few days in between. Inside that twenty-eight days, the first of the aftershocks are felt that reverberate for days and months on end when a flame is snuffed out, a life cut short.
In the past twenty-eight days, I feel as though I have aged in decades. I gave birth to my first child. I held him in my arms as he died. I buried him. I learn to live without him, to be a mother with no child. Just one month ago, he still lived under my heart. I still feel those phantom kicks.
It's as though I've been spinning spinning spinning in a chair and suddenly the spinning has stopped. It shouldn't surprise me that I need to hang on tight and get my bearings.