This morning, I held a dead baby in my arms.
I held him, his little body cooling in my arms, wrapped in a knitted blanket donated to the emergency room, and I couldn't help rocking him, even though I knew he was dead.
I held him, waiting for his family to arrive, not wanting to leave him even though it couldn't possibly matter to him.
I held him while the police kept his parents at the house, suspicious about his death, story not quite meshing with the evidence.
Two and a half hours later, I handed him to his grandmother.
I don't want to hold any more dead babies.