Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I forgot something at Michaela's art gallery one spring day in 1997. It was a cassette tape with an interview I had done for an article in a local Town Crier type of publication. Michaela handed it to me.

    I thought, "How embarrassing if she listened to it." On the tape was the refrain of a song, Midnight Confessions, by the Grassroots, that my husband and I had sung together:

    In my midnight confession
    When I tell all the world that I love you

    I had had miscarriage after miscarriage. All within a few weeks of conceiving.
    Once I was so saddened that I wept, and my husband heard me weeping and he comforted me.

    He voiced what I could not, that it was time to have another child.

    We ended up divorcing instead.

    I love the refrain of the song, Midnight Confessions. But the lines,

    you'll never be mine
    I'm wasting my time

    I cannot identify with. I'm just seeing this song like a Sesame Street presentation of a popular song. The adult connotations for grown-ups, and the child's comprehension for the children. I'm with the little people.

    With the previous conceptions, I had tried different spellings of possible names. They were all daughters.

    This last miscarriage, I was two months along. This daughter-to-be, for whose well-being I refrained from many things, I was particularly sad about. For you see, I knew her name. It is Shannon.

    Midnight Confessions by the Grassroots
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.