For a moment,

there is nothing,

well, not nothing -

there is numbing.

What they say is true, everything moves in slow motion.

I hover.

The doctor bends his head, his stethoscope moves to seal the deal.

“He’s gone”, he states and places a heavy hand on David’s shoulder.

I look up

the girls are dancing, their skirts skim the air as they twirl in pinwheel motion, they are laughing in the late afternoon sunlight,

one dips her toe into the cool pond, that is central to this scene and the ripples fan out into nothingness.

It is heart wrenchingly beautiful.

I see the minute detail in the water that falls from the feature in the courtyard

and people embracing,

eyelashes beating away heavy tears of loss,

like wings of a mighty bird of prey, they swoop and sweep.

My mother stares straight ahead,

she looks pale, beaten.

My father is pacing,

like a wild animal, dressed in glaring white

his eyes flick to the door.

He is planning an escape.

There is no sound

just a rushing in my ears

in and out

in and out.

It pulses with my own heart beat, even though,

right at this very minute,

I feel I have no heart

or that I shouldn’t be breathing at all.

I cannot hold him, even though I long to embrace him and place my mouth over his,

give him all of the life that I have,

pour it into him somehow

but he is gone.

There are words that pass through me

touching

but I can’t take my eyes off the baby, who is being passed around for the final farewell.

Panic rises quickly because I know if I don’t hold him, if I don’t touch him

he will be lost to me.

Taken by strangers, who, for today are not strangers at all.

Finally he is offered to me and as the weight of his body, now heavy with death, presses into my arms

I weep for my son

and think of mundane, every day things

like the fact that the kids will have no Easter eggs, if I don’t get my act together fast.

There are so many things I cannot do

like move

or talk properly

or mop my face free of tears and gunk

For a while the bench in the courtyard and I are one.

My parents in law are talking to my husband.

They are making plans.

They, like every other person here, expect he will be the strong one, he will shoulder the burden of my making.

He will need to be

the man.

We huddle close

as the nurse tells of formality and necessity

more things I cannot make myself do.

We pack up our belongings

and without any pomp

exit the unit, that held all of our hopes and harboured all of our worst nightmares.

As I walk down the ramp

I feel as though I am not walking at all, that I am just floating towards the exit

and a strange feeling of wellbeing washes over me

and the slow motion suddenly comes full circle

and I am in real time once more.

I mention this to my friend and to David

who each have an arm scooped under mine.

“It’s William,” she says

“he’s lifting you up, helping you to make it out of here.”

It is exactly the thing I need to hear

and it is true -

it is some kind of sweet release

that surrounds me for an hour or so

until the hot, wretched tears of guilt, love and loss start again.