it’s just an open garage door
but to me it’s where a playful boy runs out to his death.
blueberries can’t even be cut up
but i see them lodged in my 7 year old’s throat.
that blanket was knitted with love
but i imagine it unraveling near my newborn’s mouth
where he will choke on it and die.
playground equipment is meant for this age
but those slides seem too high
high enough that a fall would break his neck.
what could be wrong with a pacifer
unless it randomly breaks apart
in my baby’s mouth and blocks his airways.
swim lessons at day camp would be a great idea
except a 2:1 ratio is not enough
i think drowning would be more likely than not.
and i can never dry my hair in the bathroom
even though i can see the bathtub is empty, spots of water could remain
what if i tripped and fell — my children shouldn’t see me get electrocuted.
sometimes i worry that our house will spontaneously go up in flames and
i can’t explain these thoughts.
some will call it trauma, others PTSD or PPA, you can call it whatever you like.
i just know it as living life after loss —
excuse me, living life after death.
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 