Miscarriage holds no baby, its carriage just sits in the closet upstairs gathering dust and cobwebs.
Downstairs a mother-not-to-be sits sipping tea, her drawn face a mask of sorrow, a Salvador Dollie, but with no infant to go with it.
The nursery is a bright place but the curtains are drawn, and the shadows cast are longer then the tomb just down the street, where tiny Ruth Anne lies.
Dad is seldom home, a barstool is his recliner now, his wife can't have anything fill that void so near her womb so he drinks away the hardness left by the softness fate stole.
Time ticks, but no one ever tocks about the baby that wasn't, in society one just doesn't but the awful grieving goes on unrelieved in many lace curtain kitchens and against many tiny crib blankets all across the world at large, less one very small, in the wee hours of the mourn.