I must confess, it has been a time

Since your soft name has graced my mind

A label, title, as much yours as mine

A poignant word I thought I’d left behind

Sunny, bright days we’d walk in together

Shade we’d lounge in, cooled by deep shadow

Blue skies, bubbling water stretching forever

As we’d strolled brook-margined green meadow

You never tip-toed foreground nor limelight

Never a harsh word slipped beyond your lips

Heart-wrenching moment were you in full sight

Upon your precious, pale forehead: a kiss

Sweet brother, your chest never rose nor fell

Never to pass this ideal pastural


Mim Marshall 😇



In memory of my Son Little Sammy.

Always tucked in my heart to hold close.

It seemed as if his words were a string that kept going around me, looping, tightening, after every line. Though the string was taut in general and even tighter at certain lines, I was still breathing, but gasping, but breathing.

Once I Claimed Sorrow

Once, I claimed sorrow greater than anyone else’s. The world
was as it is now. Corpses of children loaded into trucks

each day. Change only ever coming in narratives. Gas leaks.
Landslides. Of course a tornado matters more than the antiseptic

room of patients in the nursing ward. Of course it matters
what you’re dying of. Lupus, for example, is a word

no one wants on his gravestone. Better “bravery.”
Or a quote by some bearded European thinker, saying

all we are is people. See, the first thing I’ll do when someone I love
walks that beaten path is quarantine their closet.

Then smell a piece of clothing each day. While watching a sitcom.
Or while walking Belle, my dog, who uses scents to determine

who she loves. Let death never blind us. Disappearance
is always beautiful and flowers are always blooming.

If you cannot find it in you to tell that laughing child
swinging in the monkey bars to stop, perhaps you can save

an equal kindness for grown-ups. True, we are not children.
We are far more worn. Look how we lie: Once, my old man said

that the great earthquake in this country
probably swayed a daffodil continents away

in the perfect direction, creating a beauty that can fill
whatever fracture it made in our souls. Probably,

they are wrong. The deepest sorrows are not fractures.
They are holes within the body. But even still

earthquakes do happen in the context of flowers;
and flowers sometimes bloom in minefields.

Too much happiness can be treated by thinking
of the man in the coldest place on Earth.

And what can I say about sadness
apart from how I cannot have it all to myself.

The world has not changed, but now chances are
my sorrow is average. I am most important

only when starlight passes through my irises
after thousands of years of travel; and where I dispense it

may be the greatest ripple I can manage
in whatever sea we’ve been thrown in.

This is not a call to be humble. I do not mean
to empower anyone. This is just a prayer in its rawest form.

This is an instruction to befriend your executioner. Or no.
This is nothing but a howl. A cry. A gasp.



Lost Children.

Every day day I Pray for Mum’s silently needing to hold that cherished Child in their arms.

Lost Children 

I saw this year’s first advertisement for Mother’s Day gifts. It was like being impaled with a blunt spear. The sensation was real. The pain was momentary, but severe. Like my insides cringed for me. All my organs did a simultaneous dry heave. Literally gut wrenching.

But, I can proudly say I held my own. My face remained blank and I had no verbal outburst. Every time I can effectively restrain myself I’m legitimately amazed. It’s not that it hurts any less, it’s just that I’m getting better at not outwardly breaking down.

No woman ever thinks that her first Mother’s Day as a mom will be celebrated without her baby in her arms. At least, I never did…which I suppose is funny when one considers that I’m generally thought of as a harsh realist at best and an eternal pessimist at worst. Funnier still when one recalls my most recent profession. I spent ten years in emergency medicine, the last six of those years serving as a NYC Paramedic, during which time I became intimately involved with death. Death itself was so commonplace. Watching someone die, despite my best efforts to delay the inevitable, became as normal as waving to your neighbor when you see them pulling out of the driveway. So now, I can see death everywhere. And I’m pretty at peace with it. I mean, the logic of earthly finality is sound. I can picture the realistic ends of all my loved ones lives. I’ve even imagined my own many more times than is reasonable, healthy, or sane to admit to. But still, I never thought of my baby dying, and then having to live on to see my first Mother’s Day without him. Maybe that makes it harder for me to take this. I could envision everyone’s end but his…probably because I couldn’t handle it.

But here we are. Rather, here I am, without Jacob. And I guess that’s my point. Though I’ll be with my own beloved mother and some family on this upcoming festival of motherhood, I’ll probably be feeling completely alone and totally out of place. And I won’t even have my Grams to comfort me because this will be the first Mother’s Day of my life without her. The weirdness of having no living child on this holiday will be compounded by my sudden lack of grandparents. I’ll miss seeing her wear that corsage my mama orders from the florist for her every year.

I close my eyes and imagine the three of us; me, Jacob, and Gram. With perfect clarity and HD quality I can see us standing there in my mind. I consider the options carefully, thinking of how each one carries its own hefty set of ramifications. My decision is easy to come to, but hard to live with. If I had to choose which of the three of us would have to spend Mother’s Day alone, or at least feeling like they’re alone, I would pick myself.

I would never want my sweet baby boy to live a Mother’s Day without his mommy. I can’t stand the idea of him being in elementary school, making a card for the mother he never got to know. It brings tears to my eyes to imagine his face as he watches the other kids run into their mothers’ arms. No child should live through that kind of sadness, least of all my baby.

And my dear grandmother, who’s only ever concerned herself with the needs and comforts of others, would never deserve to feel the sting of loneliness on any day, but least of all Mother’s Day.

Not that I have power over such things, but if the choice was mine, and one of us three was fated to hurt terribly, it would and should be me. God made the right call. Grams raised me to believe in self-sacrifice for causes greater than the self. My own mother has shown me time and again that she would take my pain away if she was able. She would carry the load herself so that her baby’s back, my back, would be unbroken and unburdened. But she can’t, because the load I carry is for my own child. I will hurt so Jacob, who was the only truly and purely innocent soul I ever touched, won’t have to. I’ll be sad so Gram, who gave me everything just by smiling every time I walked into the room, won’t have to be. My mom is a great mom because of how she wants to hurt for her kid, instead of her kid. The only way I can be a good mommy to Jacob now is to carry this pain for him, and carry on.

If I had to determine who would bear the brunt of this situation, I’d pick me. This load is mine to haul until The Lord calls me home. That’s not too far off when you think about it. It’s only a lifetime.

Lost Children


Why did God take my Son?

I have been asked this questions many times.

God never called your Child Home.

God doesn’t take children to Heaven . 

God loves children.

I thank God everyday for cherishing my Son and having a safe home to be in.

You see when a Child dies he or she didn’t just die

Humans die from either Disease or Accident, that called life on earth. 

Dying is not something we should do naturally 

Believe “so be it” 



God said:

You do not have to know all your deep dark secrets. You do not have to delve into the lurkings of your past. Yet the world holds on to the preciousness of the past. Its motive is good, to unveil the past so that you can then move on past it. But, of course, the world likes to analyze.

There are those who say you have to pass through every emotion before you can get to love, but do you? Do you have to go through anger in order to get to love? Why be a student of anger? Why study reproach? Why unwind guilt as if guilt were a maiden’s lovely tresses? All those feelings that are not enjoyable, give them a nod and move on. They are by-standers. You do not have to stop to talk to every by-stander. You can give a slight nod and keep walking.

Why not study that which fills your heart with joy? You are not pretending that you are perfect in the relative sense. Yes, there are buried parts of you. It’s like you can check your car’s fuel tank as often as you want, but the thing is to fill the tank.

Beloveds, offer love to yourself. You do not have to analyze all the nitty-gritty of you. Okay, so it’s there. You have resentments. It doesn’t matter what their basis is or how understandable. If you want to be done with them, be done with them. You do not have to soothe every detail of them. You can get past them. When you forgive someone else, you don’t go over every single item of their offense. So forgive yourself, and get on with it.

I am not saying to kid yourself. I am saying you can transmute whatever your past has been, and you can transmute whatever emotions tagged along. When you are going somewhere, you pack your suitcase with clothes you want to wear. You don’t take along clothes that don’t fit you any longer. You don’t take them for the sake of remembering and being honest about what you used to wear. If there are clothes you no longer want to wear, leave them behind. No need to examine each seam and pocket. Why would you? There is no diamond there.

You learned the alphabet so you could read. You don’t have to keep going back to the alphabet. You no longer have to sound out words. You do not have to acknowledge that once you read at a first grade level. You don’t have to keep going back to first grade books. No one has to give you permission to read advanced level books. You give yourself permission.

When it comes to love, it’s a little different because you came to Earth knowing love. It may be love that you have forgotten, and so you are relearning to love. You do not have to keep counting the steps to love. It is enough to love, and to love is what you want. Take out the garbage, beloveds, without examination. Why review every peel and seed?

Simply come back to love. Every time come back to love. You have it. It is yours. No reason to recall every mis-step. No reason to retrace every detour you have taken. You were driving to one state, and you passed through other states on your way, and sometimes you were even lost in one state, but now you are here. You are here with Me. You have passed through anger and guilt, and now you are in the state of love. Go where you want to go, beloveds, and be there. Never mind about when you were in a lesser state. You do not need to dredge up where you once were. Perhaps there are scars. So, there are scars, but the scars are not your occupation, beloveds.

Mim x