Don’t Blink

Trust me, friend, a hundred years goes faster than you think
So don't blink . . .

'Cause when your hourglass runs out of sand
You can't flip it over and start again

--“Don’t Blink,” Kenny Chesney

I spent the morning looking up mortuaries. We did a radial search on Google maps from the big list the hospital gave us and narrowed down to eight closest ones. I called them to get a sense of costs for cremation and a memorial wake/viewing room. 

“Is the person already deceased, or are you looking ahead?”

“Is it for an adult, or a baby?”

I can barely process the voice at the other end of the line, rattling off package prices and what they include. Embalming. Makeup for the deceased. Internment fees such as opening and closing the niche or tomb. Legal paperwork.

It’s for a baby. My baby girl. Yes, my daughter is dead. She died inside me. Her body, what’s left of it, is in a cold room at the hospital where I left her. I am here, and she is gone. I feel helpless, staring down this monumental task of arranging her funeral.
 
It’s all the energy I have for today. Afterward, I slept for two hours and woke up still feeling drained. My husband calls out to me often, and every time, he pulls me from being so far, far away.