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Sunday morning, partly cloudy in Portland. Sitting in a cafe having just had a Caffe macchiato.
The art on the walls are life size pregnant women made of fabric. Each fabric is a different color to show ethnicity of the women, and the babe in womb is upside down with the umbilical cord visible.
My heart skipped a beat and my stomach clenched when I noticed the art. Even though my son will turn 18 in about a week, the part of me that had all those miscarriages and a baby die 16 years ago does not forget.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but even though this art is probably beautiful to many people, I could never have this image in my home. I don’t openly mourn those losses very often after all these years. Yet there are certain instances that stab me in the heart and yank the scab off, even now. Wish that weren’t so. Truth is, it is so.
