Mourning (From my Journal of September 2009)

A candle is burning in our makeshift altar. It overshadows a tiny bottle--a remnant of some injectible meds. Behind the bottle and the candle is a dead clock mounted on a replica of a Stradivarius violin. A religious person though would not consider it an altar. For one thing, no religious icon or image could be seen within its vicinity. For another, nobody is seen praying before it since it was set up by Mae this morning; no priest has blessed it and no god has taken noticed of it.

But it is an altar. It serves its purpose. It gives me focus. The sights of the burning flame dancing up and about stabs my heart and holds my feet from rushing about . That tiny bottle before the altar which the candle is lighting encapsulates my child. So it is through it that I sent up my sighs, offered my weeping heart and hurting spirit to my God and my Friend.

My child, it died even before it sees the earth's beauty. It was forced out of its mother's womb because it was already lifeless. The doctor offered no explanation but she speculated that its growth was stunted by some factors. I blame the rabbit; I'm blaming Mylah for being so careless--but I did not dare verbalize about the last. I know it won't do good.

But I'm sulking. How come that people has double standards when it comes to dealing with the unborn? My child might not have been born, but it had life the moment it was conceived. It was besouled and carried the attributes of an image of God. It was special and unique. And it died without my knowing it whether it was a boy or a girl. I missed the chance of holding its hands, of watching over it late at night; of washing its diapers and gloves; of naming it and offering it before the altar of the Most High. Would it be like its sisters? All "ongas" and "okrays"? What could its gimmicks be? Would it turned out "makulit" and "ingenious" like AV and "inventive" like Nanang? Or maybe as self-conscious as Vida. Perhaps...