LIttle Egg

I’ve been watching the pearl coloured egg for twenty two minutes. I know because my watch
tells me, constantly dinging with reminders to keep walking. 10,000 steps must be reached!
My eyes are trained on a collection of fine cracks gathered on one side of the egg. Whether they
formed when the egg fell onto the ragged path, or beforehand, is unknown. Perhaps the cracks
appeared gradually, one fissure leading to the next, slowly forming an extensive network. Or
maybe the cracks appeared instantly, the shell unable to withstand the trauma of the fall.
Another three minutes pass without any developments. My watch bleeps another reminder,
piercing the otherwise peaceful sounds of the early morning. The sun has started to rise and the
birds begin to chatter, negotiating their plans for the day. As I turn my head, ready to continue
my walk along the banks of the mighty Murray, another fine crack appears on the surface of the
egg. A shiver of anticipation tingles from my hairline to my fingertips. The bird is alive.
I scan the branches of the tall gum trees stretched above my head. No sight of the nest or
mother bird. We had strong winds overnight, branches from nearby trees scratching incessantly
at the windows, like demons trying to break into the safe haven of my bedroom. Perhaps the
egg was blown some distance away from its nest and home. Away from its loved ones.
My uterus aches in compassion for the mumma bird; for growing a little one for months, for the
future memories to be seized before you can comprehend what that actually means. A body
physically grieving the loss; breasts engorged with milk for a baby who can’t drink, arms
prepared to hold a baby who can’t be held, an expanded womb and stretch-marked skin
showing the remnants of a pregnancy with no baby to parade. A lifetime subscription to a club
that no one signed up for; the ‘Mothers Who Have Lost a Child Club’.
Tears fill my eyes as the memories attempt to come flooding back. If I let my guard down, they
will hit like an unexpected tsunami; no sirens, emergency alerts or warnings. No time left to
evacuate. All I can do is weather the onslaught that is trying to pull me under, trying to convince
me that I am not a strong enough swimmer to survive these conditions. I am yet to be pulled
under though, I am stronger than I could have ever imagined.
My watch beeps yet again and I look up to see that the sun has well and truly risen. A slight
warmth caresses my skin as I raise my face to the sky. I close my eyes and yet again ask,
“Where are you, God?”. I have been searching for the promised comfort and solace for weeks,
regularly asking and patiently listening. I am yet to hear a response, yet to feel any peace,
despite being sent frequent messages of well-intended support, “May God give you peace at
this time.” My faith is one of the many pillars that has started to crumble, along with a certainty
that the world is a safe place, and that people will only say helpful things in a time of suffering.

I feel abandoned as life continues around me, isolated in my pain. I am alone in a society which
refuses to acknowledge baby loss; talking about my suffering is considered selfish and taboo.
Self-doubt and shame consume me as I yearn to speak of my son and keep his memory alive. I
feel like shouting; “He was real!” At the same time, I feel that I speak of him too often; that
people think my lips should have been sewn shut in tandem with my abdomen during the
emergency caesarean section. My days feel as empty as the abandoned nursery with the
closed door, as empty as my womb.
I pull some tissues out of my pocket and gently scoop the egg up. I sit on the ground, rocking
the egg to sleep as I am forced to weather the oncoming wave of grief. My arms hold the
weighted memory of a little body as my soft and broken voice begins to sing a lullaby forever
ingrained into my soul “Twinkle twinkle, little star…”