The deeper the wound the slower to heal, or so it goes something like this. But some wounds heal whilst keeping the injury deep inside. Like a stabbing may leave a knife tip behind, wounds may leave behind grief or pain, words spoken and words unspoken.

I wonder now, who I’ve wounded, what wounds have healed, what wounds have I inflicted leaving something behind?

I wonder of my own wounds, have I enough thread and needle to close them once and for all?

I hate mother’s day. I have fond memories of waking up early with dad to make mom breakfast in bed. Every year a handmade card, until I took a job at a local florist shop and made my mother a wrist corsage each year, seven tiny purple roses, one for each child.

Mother’s day is a grief that can’t be spoken, it’s a pain goes on and on.

These are not entirely my words, some credit should go to Victor Hugo; yet when I feel the grief of infertility I hear his words… a grief that can’t be spoken… how very true. I am not allowed to dislike pregnant women. I am not allowed to show disappointment when my sister, who marries in January, conceives in April. A healthy young woman, once willing to carry my child, now having children of her own, spending her days casually as I struggle to get up in the morning and face the days work that lie ahead.

My sisters have formed a kinship, my childlessness excludes me from this, and this makes me so very sad (difficult to type through tears). I have lost my sisters to motherhood, I have lost my heart to grief, I have lost my soul as it were only a lie, I have lost my hope with each breath took. I have lost my will with each new disappointment.

I have lost.