Dawn’s mist hovered
above a forest path of crushed leaves.
The woman stumbled over unseen, gnarled roots.
She held a bundle close to her chest,
a satchel hung on her shoulder.
She walked slowly, her face unreadable.
She saw nothing,
heard nothing,
on her journey to
the flow of water.
The stream’s water rushed
over rocks and smooth stones.
She knelt on soft moss,
unwrapping the bundle.
Bloody rags.
She took each one,
unfolded it, and soaked it
in the clear water.
She rubbed the rags against
a smooth rock—
lighter bloodstains remained.
She laid them out to dry in the sun.
Did I not climb the 99 steps on my knees?
Did I not bleed then, bead by bead, in prayer?
Was St. André’s heart not enough to bless me?
She removed her clothing—
thighs and legs stained.
Her face, bloodied from her hands
wiping away her flood of tears.
She lifted the fetus from the satchel.
Uncovering the tiny being,
she stepped into the stream,
clutching her baby girl to her chest.
They bathed in clear spring water.
The woman lay naked in the sun, motionless,
holding her baby over her empty womb.
She spread sage and lavender over the dry rags,
wrapped her daughter in clean muslin,
then buried her deeply next to the stream.
She built a cairn.
No name was given.
The woman walked the path home.
Silent.
Her heart veiled.
One year later, she returned,
knelt by the cairn,
planted a lily bulb,
saying nothing.
She returned less often.
Her hair finally shone silver strands.
She lived, laughed,
yet a tiny hollow in her heart
remained—
holding pain.
Once at the cairn,
she laid a lily,
planted another bulb.
One tear fell.
They say you forgive.
What could she have done
to need absolution?
My hallelujah is broken.
The woman’s heart remained cold
toward her God.
When she returned,
her back bent,
supported by her staff.
The woman knelt at the cairn,
pulled weeds,
smoothed the soil,
and laid a bouquet of lilies.
She whispered to her child.
Her aged hand trembled,
touching the cairn,
bowing her head—
naming her daughter.
Then she looked up,
seeing the dappled sunlight on leaves,
counting their colors,
listening to the rushing stream.
She used the tree trunk and staff,
slowly raising herself:
her body trembled with the effort.
She leaned the staff against the tree;
her arms at her sides;
her palms facing outward, empty.
She looked at the crimson and gold leaves,
smiling.
I believed in the perfect idea of you.
I climbed on my knees.
You never asked me to.
I supplicated.
I pleaded for forgiveness.
You never asked me to.
I know this: all is consecrated.
I love.
And I am free.
About the Art—
Wax and Oil/Photography Collage
The Cairn © 2026 Lee Anne Morgan
As a mother whose own daughter was murdered, I thank you for this profound post. Gorgeous artwork as well!
Lucinda, love, I remember. This post is for any parent who has lost their child. I write about grief a lot. The loss of one's child is the deepest grief of all. Thank you for sharing. 💜🕯