All I remember is visiting a cemetery once in a while. And a knowing it would be better if I asked not too many questions. Or just nothing at all.
It was something that slowly became clear over the years, like little pieces of a painful unbearable puzzle.
I understood without understanding.
He was stillborn when he was supposed to be born healthy after 9 months. My mother was 19 years old.
Back then, they thought it was better if you did not attach. So my mother never got to see her son. My father just caught a glimpse of his hair. She was back at work as soon as she was on her feet again. There was no funeral. My mother was still in the hospital. No goodbye. Only hidden grief.
The name the little one was going to be given, Roy, was given to my brother who was born a little over a year later.
So even though he filled a big void, the firstborn never got his place in the family.
A few years ago, it became possible to register your stillborn child, even if it had been years ago.
My mother had the little ones’ name come to her:
Ruben.
Later she looked up the meaning of that name.
It means firstborn.
She did not know that.
But I guess she did.
This poem I wrote for my mother. And also for the little big brother I never knew. But maybe he is still looking out for me like a big brother does.
Yesterday I suddenly felt the urge to write this poem. This month it has been exactly 45 years and my mother is turning 65 this month.
Maybe it’s like a tribute.
(And it had to be written in Dutch.)
Ruben
het wiegje dat leeg bleef
de naam die nooit genoemd werd
de rouw die werd verzwegen
nooit mocht zijn
er altijd was
de pijn die verdween
maar altijd bleef
de leegte die nooit werd gevuld
maar altijd gevoeld
als ze vragen hoeveel heb je er
zeg ik soms twee
maar denk ik drie
het is nu 45 jaar later
dan die ene nacht in november
waarop je er niet eens
heel even was
maar in mij
adem je nog elke dag