While I was pregnant there were three very important-to-me other women (family really) who also found out they were pregnant. Each of these women have had miscarrages before and I didn't talk about my own pregnancy much to spare their feelings. I've had my baby now*, and two of those three women have lost theirs, one very early in the pregnancy and the other delivered but he didn't make it.
I'm riddled with guilt when I know they will see pictures of my Elliott, and be reminded of their empty arms. To those women, who may or may not ever see this:
I'm so sorry for your loss. I love you.
I'll still post pictures of Elliott, feel free to look or not, but please remain my 'friend'.
From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale
People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.