"It should've been october when they wheeled me down the hall in to the room and hooked up an IV bag, poked and probed and prepped, but at six months early there are no videos of a baby screaming into life in full color. Just a black and white sonogram snapshot of a baby still cradled in its tomb. No soft flesh to pass through me into life, just a sterile metal rod to scrape the death from my womb. No certificate of birth, just a bottle of pills for the cramps. I guess that's what happens when it's April and it should've been october."
The bill came in the mail today. I didn't recognize the return address, but when I opened the envelope and read the description of services, I knew. Anesthesia, D&C. I shuddered. Had I really expected him to do it for free? It was just a job to him. Tidying up the death that had ravaged my dreams. At the end of the day, he would go home to his family and forget the details of the day. Did I really expect him to weep for me?
"The clank of the mailbox lid, the click of the mailman's heals on the white cement porch, tell me the mail is here. My husband opens the door and brings it in: the Penny-saver, a coupon for dish soap, the electric bill, a sweepstakes giveaway. I hate the mail. It stings like salt in an open wound. It tells me that to everyone else, today is just another ordinary day."
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