The author of this poem has chosen to remain anonymous
Day 7 and I find myself in a foggy cloud of worry. Discomfort. Restlessness.
My headphones blast Allahu Allahu from my Ramadan playlist as I waddle off the airplane with my travel pillow in arm.
My friend’s words ring through my ears: “they passed the heartbeat bill”
And here we are. And I miss you.
I think about what your little life would have been had this been our home.
I think about what I was feeling at six weeks when I first learned of your existence growing in my then naive and rejoiceful body.
The calls I was making to beloved family and the clever ways I plotted and shared our little secret with only those I loved.
The gentle belly rubs and whispers with my partner about names to come.
How quickly our world flipped upside down when week after week our nightmares turned to reality.
Your heart was beating when we found out you would not live to term at 11 weeks.
Your heart was beating when I cried on the bathroom floor making duaa that Allah make this decision for me.
Your heart was beating when we saw you for the last time on the monitor and took a moment to say our goodbyes.
Your heart was beating on Feb 14th, Ash Wednesday, Valentine’s Day 2018.
Until it wasn’t anymore.
Because my Rahma for us needed to extend beyond the Rahm for me and you.
So this Ramadan, I’m in Georgia and making duaa for all the mamas who won’t get to make such choices. That Allah make their hearts a little less heavy. That the grassroots abortion funds receive plenty of money. And that the mamas’ journeys be met with the kind of compassion that is always needed, the kind of Rahma that is always needed, when making decisions about our bodies, for us and for our babies.
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