The Fragility of Those Two Pink Lines
After my miscarriage, I spent my next pregnancy steeling myself for another loss.
You appeared for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon. You were faint, barely perceptible, but you were there: a pale line on a test strip that I’d dipped into a cup filled with my pee. I set you down on the ledge of the bathroom sink and tried to get back to work, but I couldn’t stop looking at you.
Staring out the window in front of my desk, I imagined all the weird kid questions you’d ask. Do clouds smell? What are worms? Where did I come from? I imagined my response—“You came from a cup of my pee”—and you scrunching your little face. I lingered in this fantasy a while longer, then looked down at my keyboard and picked at the crumbs lodged between the keys. What if you’re gone before I get a chance to meet I wondered.
