This is a story about grief. The metaphor of grief as a stone baby is quite transparent. It could be deemed unsophisticated, and that is fine. Life is seldom sophisticated anyway. Instead, life can often be quite heavy, like a stone. A stone baby.
My stone baby
My stone baby was delivered. I had been expecting it, even though you couldn’t say I ordered it. You don’t order stone babies, they just arrive.
It arrived inside a crib. The crib itself is much bigger than the baby. That made me wonder: is it going to grow?
I was in the kitchen making coffee when the baby came. I heard the faintest whimper and a sudden sharp scent of salt. I came into the living room with a mug in my hand, and there it was.
My stone baby doesn’t really eat or sleep. It just is. It exists inside its crib in my living room. When it came, I felt it. The weight. The density. Like the baby had been dropped on my shoulders. At first it seemed mostly asleep. Probably recovering from its journey.
I am not sure what to do with this stone baby. But then again, none of the people who receive one seem to know. Most of us wait. Wait for the baby to disappear, or at least shrink to a size where it doesn’t steal all their space.
When the baby arrived, I had to rearrange the living room. The crib couldn’t fit anywhere else in the house. I tried several layouts. Crib behind the sofa, crib next to the sofa, crib by the window… Eventually, I nested it between the tv cabinet and the wall. Directly in front of the sofa. I wanted to keep an eye on the baby.
Much like regular babies, stone babies don’t come with instruction manuals. Yet, everyone seems to know how to take care of one. Unless it’s their own. When mine arrived, I did some research, but soon stopped, feeling like I wasn’t learning much. One piece of advice stuck with me, though. Do not place stone babies in a cupboard, or a back room. The crib can smash doors and walls if it doesn’t have space to grow.
The first week, when people came over, they had questions about my stone baby. Does it eat? (No. Stone babies don’t eat.) Is it noisy? (Not really. Only whimpers if I don’t give it enough attention.) Is it smelly? (A slight hint of salt, which doesn’t bother me. I find it comforting.) Does it grow? (Not yet, though I expect it will.) All questions really boiling down to: is it alive? Does it live, like a human? What is it here for?
I had no idea what the stone baby wanted. Other than to make its presence known. Make it known it did, by growing. When it came, the crib was the size of an armchair, and the baby was like a human new-born. By the end of the first week, the stone baby filled its crib. Then, they started growing together. Bigger and bigger, until I had to move my tv cabinet to the corner. Now the crib was in the middle of the main wall. In full view from any area of my open space living room-kitchen-dining room. At the centre of my everyday life.
I tried to live a normal life, go out, have people over. In fact, on that first week, I was barely left alone. A frantic stranger on the internet cautioned against being alone with a stone baby. They grow faster than you think, she said, and faster than ever in silence and solitude. Make sure people keep you entertained. The sounds and movements limit their growth, she counselled. I haven’t found much proof of this. My stone baby seemed to be growing just fine in the company of others.
Instead, it was people who seemed to be affected by the presence of the stone baby. The more it grew, the more uncomfortable they became. They would sit in awkward postures on the sofa to face elsewhere, yet they were constantly glancing at the crib. Losing track of the conversation, distracted, fidgeting. Their questions changed. How long do you intend to keep it? (I haven’t really made plans. It’s not up to me to decide.) Maybe it would like a change of scenery? (I don’t have enough room anywhere else in my house.) You could look for a babysitter? (It doesn’t really need one.) Have you spoken to someone about it? (Does it look like I’m hiding it?)
Eventually, visits grew fewer and far between. The stone baby ceased being a topic of curiosity and became a nuisance to most. I had grown to like it. I felt comfortable in its presence. Every morning, I sat next to the stone baby and drank big mugs of tea. Sometimes I would read, or even just look out the window in silence. My stone baby was a companion that did not require entertainment. Conversation. My stone baby didn’t turn up its nose if I failed to shower for a day or two.
I didn’t try to feed it, or lull it to sleep, or swaddle it. I also didn’t scream at it, hide it in the bathroom, leave it outside in the hope it would just disappear. None of these approaches seemed helpful. I just let it be. I just let myself be in its company. Gradually, the stone baby became my stone baby. It would coo when I approached. Or at least, be silent and calm. The smell of salt grew fainter.
I still have my stone baby, but you won’t see it in my living room anymore. Nowadays, it lives in my pocket. Like I suspected, baby and crib gradually started shrinking. I had to find new spots for them. For a while, the baby took up a shelf in my living area. One day, I realised I wanted a more private interaction with it, so I moved it to my bedroom. By that point, baby and crib were so small, I could fit them on my bedside table. The baby also became more portable. It is still a stone baby, and I feel its weight on me, but now it’s a weight I can bear. A weight I want to bear, a safe weight, like an anchor.
The crib stays on my bedside table, where the baby sleeps at night. I still spend time with it in silence. The baby coos at me. Sometimes it still whimpers, and the scent of salt envelops me again. Not so piercing anymore, rather nostalgic, like the smell of a house you used to know as a child.
Sometimes I talk to a selected few people about my stone baby. I’ll take it out of my pocket and show them. Luckily, not everyone is uncomfortable with stone babies. They will smile at it and hold it lovingly in their hand. And for a moment, I feel lighter.
Then I take it back, put it carefully back in my pocket, and move on with my day. My day with my stone baby.
Writing musings and news
Hello readers!
So, something a little bit different this time. Most of the time, my writing tends towards fantastical escapism of some sort, but occasionally, the human side comes out.
I believe grief to be a foundational side of the human experience. One of those sides we learned to hide and sanitise. We would rather forget how fragile we are and how finite our time is. Our own grief can make us ashamed, other people’s grief uncomfortable.
I believe there can be good in embracing those difficult side of us and our lives. Sometimes by ourselves, often with the support of a friend/family/pet. Mental health support as well is important in my view. And maybe if we show them care, those sides will become just a little less rocky.
Aside from my rambling. Yes, this issue did reach you in the middle of March. Some changes are happening for Oddball Tales; mainly, the schedule is going to become more frequent. Hopefully, I will be able to keep up. There are just too many stories wanting to come alive for me to stick to only once a month.
If you didn’t give up and made it all the way here, thank you. It means the world to me.
See you soon!
OH MY GOODNESS I LOVE THIS. It’s quiet and gorgeous and thrumming with meaning. It also feels like EXACTLY what I needed to hear today, my friend. Thank you for writing this and for sharing it. You ROCK and I love seeing you hit your writing stride. More please!! 😋