u/RachelECourville

If you're not in a place to read something light right now, skip this one. I've written plenty in the dark throws of grief. But this poem was written a little later on. Perhaps 5 years after my daughter died.

I wrote “The Builder” after I started feeling Marcella in my ordinary days. Not just as a wound anymore. Not just as a sadness.

I believe there are invisible lines connecting every one and every thing. Most days, we move through them without noticing.

But grief changes the way you see.

Loss makes those lines brighter, more impossible to ignore.

This poem and painting came from that place—from the feeling that Marcella is still here, connected to me and others who love her, still building something I can’t always see…

but can feel all the same.

https://preview.redd.it/0lgyebr2mgah1.jpg?width=1200&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=f68cd3fe34cac94d4627093e63b42fb584e032ea

https://preview.redd.it/dznpw9r2mgah1.jpg?width=1200&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=08b8330c2aaeb55233fcceb2770d1992d50b39c5

https://preview.redd.it/j46l19r2mgah1.jpg?width=1200&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=602d53913890d72c84fc65eff7b469f6162d79bd

Hi friends,

I’m taking steps towards publishing my poetry collection that chronicles my experience of grief following the loss of my firstborn child.

I never intended to write a book. But over the course of eight years — it wrote itself.

My main goal with this book is not to make money, but to reach the audience that needs it—to offer comfort, companionship, and understanding to bereaved parents and others navigating loss. It’s not a self-help book. It’s the book I was looking for when my daughter died, that didn’t exist then.

It’s written in an accessible and intimate voice, and is paired with my original artworks.

Sorry for the long preamble, but with all that in mind, I decided self-publishing was right for me. I didn’t want just a stand-alone poem published in a journal. And I didn’t want to give creative control to a publisher (if they even wanted it).

So a friend who has published before told me about Ingram Spark. I looked into their offering, and they have a National Publishing Plan (US $400) that provides ISBN, Cover Art (although I’m using my own, so in this instance just Cover formatting), editing/formatting of the manuscript, and distribution to their network of retailers (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Walmart, Target, etc.) as print and ebook.

Ok well that sounded good! So I signed up and paid and I’m in it and … I’m so underwhelmed. So far they’ve given me sub-par cover options, did basic editing like punctuation, with no criticism or options on poem order or word choice or what’s working and what’s not. They haven’t once given any kind of feedback. Negative or positive, even when I’ve directly asked.

They have tried to upsell me on things like “literary rights,” even though copyright is included.

Has anyone else had any experience with this program? I’m at the formatting stage, so maybe the back half of the process is worth what I’ve paid? Does it get better? Should I bail and try something else?

Thanks in advance. I really appreciate the time and experience of anyone self publishing!

Outside the Hospital Window

Outside this hospital window

there is only a parking lot.

 

Cars nosing into spaces,

backing out again.

 

Above them,

a plane pulls its thin white scar

across the sky.

 

In here,

the monitors are beeping again.

 

The cuff on my arm

tightens,

then lets go.

 

And I think

I see you, too,

 

out there,

 

just beyond the glass.

 

I am holding you

against my chest,

pacing the short hallway

outside your nursery,

 

the one we painted yellow,

and the nightlight

throws a small moon

onto the wall.

 

Your cheek

is tucked beneath my chin.

Your breath,

a soft and steady tick

on my skin.

 

And I am breathing you in

as I sing,

low in my throat,

Welcome home.

 

The nurse comes in,

checks the drips.

 

It’s time

for my meds again.

 

I blink.

Look harder.

 

I can still see you out there—

out of the NICU,

out in the open air.

 

If only I could reach

the other side

of this window—

 

the one between

the world

we are trapped inside

 

and the one

I was supposed

to carry you into.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1uexl29/comment/otq7rpn/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1uf6a1j/comment/otq9vr7/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Outside this hospital window

there is only a parking lot.

 

Cars nosing into spaces,

backing out again.

 

Above them,

a plane pulls its thin white scar

across the sky.

 

In here,

the monitors are beeping again.

 

The cuff on my arm

tightens,

then lets go.

 

And I think

I see you, too,

 

out there,

 

just beyond the glass.

 

I am holding you

against my chest,

pacing the short hallway

outside your nursery,

 

the one we painted yellow,

and the nightlight

throws a small moon

onto the wall.

 

Your cheek

is tucked beneath my chin.

Your breath,

a soft and steady tick

on my skin.

 

And I am breathing you in

as I sing,

low in my throat,

Welcome home.

 

The nurse comes in,

checks the drips.

 

It’s time

for my meds again.

 

I blink.

Look harder.

 

I can still see you out there--

out of the NICU,

out in the open air.

 

If only I could reach

the other side

of this window--

 

the one between

the world

we are trapped inside

 

and the one

I was supposed

to carry you into.

Outside the Hospital Window

by Rachel E Courville

Outside this hospital window

there is only a parking lot.

Cars nosing into spaces,

backing out again.

Above them,

a plane pulls its thin white scar

across the sky.

In here,

the monitors are beeping again.

The cuff on my arm

tightens,

then lets go.

And I think

I see you, too,

out there,

just beyond the glass.

I am holding you

against my chest,

pacing the short hallway

outside your nursery,

the one we painted yellow,

and the nightlight

throws a small moon

onto the wall.

Your cheek

is tucked beneath my chin.

Your breath,

a soft and steady tick

on my skin.

And I am breathing you in

as I sing,

low in my throat,

Welcome home.

The nurse comes in,

checks the drips.

It’s time

for my meds again.

I blink.

Look harder.

I can still see you out there—

out of the NICU,

out in the open air.

If only I could reach

the other side

of this window—

the one between

the world

we are trapped inside

and the one

I was supposed

to carry you into.

Outside the Hospital Window

 by Rachel E Courville

Outside this hospital window

there is only a parking lot.

 

Cars nosing into spaces,

backing out again.

 

Above them,

a plane pulls its thin white scar

across the sky.

 

In here,

the monitors are beeping again.

 

The cuff on my arm

tightens,

then lets go.

 

And I think

I see you, too,

 

out there,

 

just beyond the glass.

 

I am holding you

against my chest,

pacing the short hallway

outside your nursery,

 

the one we painted yellow,

and the nightlight

throws a small moon

onto the wall.

 

Your cheek

is tucked beneath my chin.

Your breath,

a soft and steady tick

on my skin.

 

And I am breathing you in

as I sing,

low in my throat,

Welcome home.

 

The nurse comes in,

checks the drips.

It’s time

for my meds again.

 

I blink.

Look harder.

 

I can still see you out there—

out of the NICU,

out in the open air.

 

If only I could reach

the other side

of this window—

 

the one between

the world

we are trapped inside

and the one

I was supposed

to carry you into.

(TW: Child Loss)

The First Night Home

by: Rachel E Courville

We turned off the porch light

out of habit,

even though no one would be arriving

with balloons.

 

No car idling in the driveway

while someone unbuckled

a sleeping bundle from her seat.

 

Inside, the house was too clean.

Bottles lined up on the counter

like open mouths.

 

I stood in the doorway

of the nursery we painted

a soft, undecided yellow.

The crib waited,

beige bars smooth as bone,

the mobile still as a held breath.

I pressed my palm to the mattress,

testing its firmness,

as if it might matter now.

 

On the dresser,

a stack of burp cloths

still smelled of lavender and something else—

a note of hope I hadn’t noticed

when I first folded them,

pregnant and certain

of the shape our future would take.

 

I sat in the rocker

we bought brand new.

I held nothing,

but my arms remembered

the weight of you,

how your head fit

in the bend of my elbow,

how your breath warmed

the hollow of my throat.

 

I let my hand rest

on the curve of my belly,

skin already slackening,

emptied of its purpose,

and whispered your name

into the pale-yellow light

as if it were a seed

I could still plant here—

as if saying it enough

might coax you back

after frost.

 

On the nightstand,

I laid the hospital bracelet

they cut from your wrist.

 

There are parts of grief

that don’t become

beautiful or meaningful.

 

Some parts are just sad.

By Rachel E Courville

I think of you every day.
I don’t want you to take this
the wrong way,
so I thought I’d begin there.

I think of you
every
single
day.

It’s just that grief has a way of
changing its shape.

It’s like I’m constantly wearing
a pair of shoes that are
two sizes too small.

At first, I could think
of nothing else.

My toes pressed so tightly together.
Sharp pain at every step.
My whole world throbbed.

But people can get used to
almost anything.

And over time,
the pain became as much a part of me
as the feet themselves.

My toes are numb.
I am numb.

I move through my days
without noticing.

Until I step wrong.

Until I see a little girl the age you
should
be.

Until someone asks,
How many kids do you have?

Until I pass upon
the onesie your grandma
monogrammed for you—
the one I still can’t throw it away.
And I never will.

And then,
there it is.

That sudden drop in my chest,
as if happiness and sorrow
have collided
and become the same thing.

So, you see,
I don’t dare pretend you’re still here.
It’s excruciating.

But when I step wrong,
on days like today,
just for a few moments,
I allow my mind to wander and wonder

Who would you be today?

By Rachel E Courville

They ask whether,
after all that happened,
I remember anything that’s not
Bad.

And I wish there was a way to convey
all the many good things about
you.

But all that comes to mind
is blankets and dandelions.
Your soft breathing
and the light that danced between us
as I brushed your hair across your face.

The swell in my heart
as big and deep and beautiful
as the swell of the ocean
I dreamed I’d one day take you.

But there are no words
for that.

So all I can do
when they ask of you
is smile.

And I do.

Because as far away as you are,
even on the Bad days,
I remember the
Good of you.