It sits in a cupboard
A capsule that encapsulates the overwhelming joy
The devastating sorrow.
A seat that will never be sat in,
Echoing the loneliness of the arms that remain empty.
A mocking injustice
That a cold box will hold what this plush chair should have cradled.
It did not have the opportunity to act out that which it was made for.
It will not comfort, protect or be that which in essence it is.
Just as parents are parents,
Whether physically or not,
This car seat will always be the seat intended to hold the most precious cargo,
And yet never managed to do so.
To be that which you are,
And yet that which you cannot be,
Is the ultimate betrayal of death to life.
Love, the enormity of which can only be measured
By the immenseness of grief,
Cannot change what it is,
Can only scream wordlessly into the night with moans from the very soul.
Yet, the graciousness of the cross is that, even within death
There is life.
There is hope.
Arms that ache to hold and love,
Will one day embrace and be filled.
A face that was known for only a moment
Will be celebrated for eternity.
Parents who are yet to be parents, will,
Through the miracle of new life,
Find a meeting of hearts, a recognition of love.
A chair sits empty in a cupboard,
"Not yet," it whispers,
"But soon."
