A friend gave me a cradle--a bassinet, really, with several parts, back when I first announced my pregnancy at work. I brought the pieces home to our nursery. I didn't set it up at the time, just left it in pieces on the floor.
When Truman died, I resolved to always call the nursery the nursery. But what to do about those empty pieces of bassinet. The cradle was there, but it wasn't even assembled. It stayed in the corner until my in-laws came for Christmas.
As I prepared the house for them, I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable for the empty cradle to stay, in pieces, in the nursery. In a few maddening moments, I scooped up the pieces and stuffed some into our closet, and the main basket was thrown into the garage. Hiding places. Hide my pain. Hide this sorrow. Private pain, you see.
Pieces of a cradle, pieces of my heart. Can't sort.Try to stuff. Longing. Always with me.
Empty cradle, broken heart.
