I call it a baby, even though it is just a sac,

Even though that is what the doctor calls it,

A sac, when she locates it on the grey screen,

A tiny dot, with the ultrasound,

After the bleeding starts,

And I decide to go to the emergency room,

But before they send me home to miscarry.

And I call it a baby when I call you to tell you,

To tell you how, how the baby is gone.

And as I wait on the telephone line, waiting

For someone I don’t know to go and try to find you,

Shouting out your name in a hallway of a boot camp,

To find you, and I am waiting, listening to men walk by,

Men in boots, who are wearing fatigues and carrying guns,

Men like you, who are getting ready to go,

Men you will risk your life with in Afghanistan.

And I realize that you are gone too,

That you are already gone.

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2 Responses to Gone

  1. Mrs. K says:

    I imagine that to be the worst feeling in the world. I’m so sorry about that precious little life. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.

    *You write beautifully.

  2. Mrs. K says:

    I realized some of your writing may not be your story, but it is still someone’s story and my heart breaks for anyone who has gone through such a terrible loss without their other half there for comfort/support.

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