It is the shortest day of the year.
Or the longest night.
Is the glass half empty or half full? Or is the glass just not the right size?
She died today.
The night is day, and St. Lucy stands with two eyes on her tray,
Looking over my family as we huddle around a small bundle
On someone else’s bed,
Soaking someone else’s sheets with our tears,
Staining someone else’s floor with her blood.
It is the longest night of the year
Or the shortest day.
Our glass is transparent. You can make it whatever liquid you like.
She died simply.
In the time between day and night, night and day,
A dusk that never shed a beautiful light.
That is now eternally dark.
Solstice is magic, I said once.
The darkest day of the darkest year.
Solstice means a beginning and an ending.
Tomorrow will be lighter.
The next day, more so, but does the sun really matter anymore?
When we don’t sleep,
this is the longest day of the year.
Our glass is broken. The floor is sticky from my carelessness.
She is dead and born together in the same moment.
Her first day was her first night.
Not being able to tell the difference, she just continued sleeping.
Like some little, perfect Rip Van Winkle, who they had forgotten under a tree.
I am not a storyteller this time. I am a mother.
I am not a mother this time. I am a truth teller.
I am not a truth teller this time. I am a soothsayer.
I am not a soothsayer this time. A fortune teller with a cracked crystal ball.
Solstice is a curse. I said today.
Solstice is a nightmare.
about this piece.
My daughter died on Winter Solstice, and was born the next day. We have marked our grief in seasons. It has been seven seasons without her, and next solstice, we honor our second year without Lucy. I have another poem about her called Summer Solstice that was published in June. -Angie
about the contributor.
Angie is the editor of still life 365. Her second daughter Lucia was stillborn after 38 weeks of pregnancy. She writes about her experience with grief and mothering at still life with circles.