Year of the Boar, Eleventh Month, Day 20.

I cannot bring myself to record all that has passed during the past sevenday but I have forced myself out of bed because I cannot let it go unwritten that I was not able to carry the child to term and that he did not survive the early labour.
I see no need to dwell on the pain of labour or the hideous, otherworldly sound of my own screaming - I wish I could forget... I should like a return to those days when I felt numb but this... this is far worse than what I felt when Kenta was taken from me... when I believed myself still in love with him... I had thought that I could feel nothing for this child but when death ripped him from my womb with the cord around his neck, I wanted death to take me too...
I will write nothing further today but I did feel it important to mark his brief life somehow and to remind myself should I read this at a later date that despite everything I have felt and written about the child before now... when I saw his face... and when I felt his tiny, perfectly formed fingers on mine... I loved him. I did ... I loved him with a force so great that even had our greatest poets tried to write about it, they could not have described even a measure of what I felt for him.