I tried to remember all the rules of Month Three.
Don’t hug too long, protected tears might surface.
Don’t say names until you’re sure she is ready to hear them.
Don’t ask how she is if it’s already written on her face
and don’t forget to let her know you are here, there, wherever she needs you to be, whenever she needs you.
We talked blogs and tweets, long lines, busy streets and the food on our plates.
I spotted her wrists and knew the marks on her skin were actual size.
The tiniest of footprints nestled inside each of her arms, her boys, resting against her.
She held cups of ice to her arm, alternating hands, and casually mentioned she had just had them done.
They burned a little, she needed something to ease the pain.
I dug through my bags of coupons and vitamin samples and handheld fans for something, anything to dull her ache.
Handing over a mini first aid kit, band aids and a long explanation of where we could find Motrin, I would have walked against the traffic of New York sidewalks to help.
Because dulling the physical pain is something I could do.
I can’t mend the emotional wounds, I can’t stop the scars from forming or speed up the work her heavy heart must do.
I can only sit next to her, offer her understanding nods and gentle wishes and a knowing that she will be okay.
She is strong and we are unbreakable and there is a sisterhood of moms living without their babies standing behind her.
We will hold her up when it’s too hard to stand and help her carry her story.
It is forever added to the weight of our own.
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