More than 30 years ago
my mother lost her little son.
He died in her womb
on the calculated day of his birth
and was then born two weeks later.
The cause of his death remained unknown.
Until today she hasn’t overcome her grief.
I was four years old, then.
My mother never saw her child.
After my dead brother was born,
they carried him out of the delivery room
in a pale blue plastic bucket with a lid.
She only saw “Something dark”.
– “What did he look like?” my mother asked.
The midwife replied:
– “Do you seriously expect me
to look at something like that?”
There was no name for my brother
and no funeral, either.
Many years had to pass before my mother
was able to talk about her pain.
It is only now that her son’s name
is no longer “No. 2”