Intangible Losses

A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.

At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.

When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.

And, she suckled them.

She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.

She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.

And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.

As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.

Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,

in separate incidents,

years apart.

And, I was there…

I watched, impotent, as she integrated her new reality and did what she had to do, and survived. I offered tangible assistance out of the realization that as a mother of four living children, I could not understand the intangibles.



Through it all, I am painfully aware that all she has left of the lives she nurtured is a cherished box of ashes, a slideshow of memories, complete with sound, and love that longs to be expressed. And, my own mother’s voice rings in my ears, “Life is not fair!”

As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.

She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.

More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.


Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.

And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.



Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.

A friend absorbs it.


© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll