And her mind was without form. And void. And darkness was upon the face of the deep recesses. The synapses wouldn’t fire quite right, failed to give her a scene or two.
Her mind was still.
For a while.
Maybe a few hours.
Or a smattering of days.
It’s hard to give a baby away, to know that from this point forward, it will never be hers. Only hers. Never again.
Others will smith it. Argue over it. Dissect it. Require a little more of this and a little less of that. Wrangle it into A Thing. She thinks she doesn’t have any more tears to shed for her baby, but she will find out she’s just begun to weep.
She turns her far away eyes to the next thing. Getting through days of missing her baby, of wondering how it fares. Weeks of not knowing. Not hearing. Perhaps a month full of dreams of what happens next, beyond the boundary of words that exist, where they circle in a prison of chaos, longing to be set free.