Stars

And now I'm all alone in the dark of night
The moon is shining but I can't see the light

And I can't look at the stars
They make me wonder where you are

--“Stars,” Grace Potter & The Nocturnals

Week 3 postpartum. Sometimes the dreams get creepy. I usually get them on the cusp of falling asleep, and then I awaken again. This time, I see Thi’s coffin, though she hardly has a body left and we’ve opted to cremate. Formed around the coffin are baby hands, still fisted in their infancy—white and blue, the colors of death and oxygen deprivation.

“Have you come for my Thi?” I asked them. Endless sets of eyes look up at me, wide and infantile. They are the souls of our lost babies, come to bear her spirit away.