Tonight, while I’m getting ready for bed, washing my face, I’m thinking about writing a post. It would be something like this, “When I get in graduate school I’m going to write a paper about the psychology of having to be in the back row of gym class. Today a gentleman was behind the instructor rather than positioning himself in front of someone else. I wonder at the thought process of this. Are you afraid to be too close to the instructor? Afraid someone behind you might think your lunges suck…cause really, 99% of the class’s lunges suck.” This is going through my mind then I wonder if it’s only in Arkansas. The classes I took in Delaware were not the same. Maybe it was the sheer number of people but the prime spots were up front. I didn’t take any classes in Tennessee but I did take yoga when we lived in Mississippi. People had no fear of being in the front row there. I remember the instructor, after she found out about Cooper’s death she told me, “Don’t give up. Don’t you ever give up.” Right there at the counter where you pick up a towel and leave your keys. And the nice director, I don’t remember his name, he was passing in the hall one day, “You had your baby right, did you have a boy or girl?” I froze, “Yes, but she died.” That look on his face. I can see it, as I’m standing at my bathroom sink almost 8 years later. I remember turning away quickly because I’m breaking, and I don’t want to do it in front of him. Because I don’t just cry, I melt into a pool of tears and snot and I’m on my knees and I can’t breathe.
And there I am sobbing into my towel in the bathroom in Searcy, March 9, 2015. It shocks me sometimes, how these innocent thoughts lead me in a full circle back to her. The pain. It is always there, the memories are inseparable from the pain. I’ve gotten better at it in time. I can talk about the facts of her death with calm and poise. “My first daughter was stillborn. At 38 weeks. A cord accident from low amniotic fluid. Yes, it was a difficult time.”
But the look on that man’s face. He never said anything else about my baby but one day we passed in the hall again and he stopped me, “I found this white feather, it’s for you.” He laid it gently in my hand. And I wonder, what happen to that feather.