Today is the anniversary of the day that I laboured for hours to birth a child that had already finished his oh so short life. Stillborn. Though as my friend Cath says, a stillbirth is still birth.
I have one picture of my husband and I holding him, swathed in a hospital green blanket. We named him Vincent - after Van Gogh. I feel about Van Gogh the same way Alice Walker does - "If there were any justice in the world/I'd own Van Gogh's starry night."
So we named our baby Vincent and placed him among the stars. Tonight, right after posting this, I will go out in the dark but clear night and find my Vincent dancing. Singing to me of light from up among the constellations I have made of my beloveds who have left this earth.
Stars tell us of the infinite, the visionary, of something in ourselves that is starlike, star stuff. In loss, we look up and find in the beckoning incandescence of a single star the longed for soul of the departed. - from The Book of Symbols