In the beginning, 

Grammy forged the quilt 

of blood and loss.

One live boy wanting to nurse 

even before his dead twin plopped out 

onto the stained sheet. 

Unsuspected second placenta 

retained in her dark and quiet 

poisoning her blood. 

Six months in bed to heal. 

Grammy's sisters took turns caring 

for my grandmother Florence, 

my mother Barbara 

and her new-born brother Larry, 

the surviving twin. 

Lillian, Clara, Polly rotated care 

of their sister Florence, 

while little Barbara "Bobby,"

my mama when she was four 

wove daisies to master 

her big feelings of anger. 

Where did her mother go? 

why couldn't she get up out of bed? 

play with her, care for her? 

Disappeared into fabric 

squares and circles 

made of Bobby's old dresses, 

her daddy's old shirts, 

her mother's own house-dresses. 

Piece after piece, square after square 

fitting together stitch after stitch 

every day flat on her back 

for half a year. 

Six months to an under five 

is a lifetime of missing mom. 

Half a year even when she's all grown, 

that four year old still mourns.

The quilt that grammy forged 

and forced herself to make 

hour after day after week after month 

for six long ones - May through November 

so as not to go crazy with grief, 

while her body healed its blood, 

that quilt, that very quilt

now hangs in the hallway 

where I live on a hill 

listening to bird call and wind.

In mild weather, I open the door. 

The hallway becomes a wind tunnel - 

ruffling flower-garden pattern quilt suspended from wood in the hall. 

Wind ruffles stories that fall 

staining the carpet 

with bad blood getting better; 

dead baby splat into the world.

Origin of my interest in healing 

the one left behind? 

Maybe the beginning 

of how to follow a calling 

to heal my ancestors wounds? 

Uncle Larry's loss? Extreme. 

Lost his traveling buddy. 

Lawrence made it; Loughlin did not. 

Loss pressed down on him,

later, on his daughters, 

Unrequited love 

sent into the ethers 

echoing echoing echoing 

never to return return return. 

Vacuous space resorbed 

the baby who got away. 

Grammy's loss poured 

into that quilt 

hanging just outside 

my treatment room door 

where babies who've lost a lot 

on their journey Into life, 

those who got scraped up 

bad enough by the process itself 

of getting born, 

to need help-

to bind their wounds

come to tell their stories 

with sound and movement, 

while hurting mamas and 

worried papas 

learn to decipher 

newborn body language; 

learn tears are drops of poetry 

to be learned by heart, 

distilled into essence for pain relief. 

Stroke a cheek. Show loving kindness. 

Open spaceful listening to the story 

till it's done for the moment, 

for the day, week or month...

Story never ends till life does. 

Stories like quilt squares 

link together the tapestry 

of loss and triumph. 

Ongoing 

going on 

about life.