In the minutes and hours after learning about my first miscarriage during a routine ultrasound, my senses sharpened to the physical details around me: the blossoming warmth of May in Maine, a single feathery cirrus cloud overhead in an otherwise perfectly blue sky, the MOJO RZN license plate on the maroon Mustang in front of us at a light as my husband and I drove home disappointed. Early pregnancy can be speculative, those initial days filled with prospect and sparkly suspense. It’s a dreamy, hopeful time. My loss was immediately grounding. So many of my days had been spent in the ether, in a wishful bubble of making lists and scrolling Instagram—a bubble that popped when there so clearly wasn’t a heartbeat on the screen in the cool, dark imaging room. Now as we drove back to our house and our toddler, the concrete details of the ride were asteroidal. The smell of burning…
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