Poor little girl. Tender lullabies to eternal sleep. Her heartbeat is silent now. Mine thunders on. Tears and mourning and grief.
Nothing's the way it's supposed to be.
Calling the priest about a funeral. Her milk came in today. She should be nuzzling my breasts. She's three days old, so we drive all over town looking for a white satin blanket. Satin, to wrap around our dead baby . . .