Goodbye, Baby
by Jolene at/on 6:56:00 PM
in
in
Decided to clean up my bag today. It’s been ages since I’ve done so, or have I ever?
As I turn it upside down to rid it of odds and oddities; shards of glass, pencil shavings, a long lost earring, erasers , pen refills and small change pop out in cacophony.Then I open another compartment, a small one on the inside of the first compartment, and out come a rain of little bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been.
Indecipherable to another, but not to me.
Try as I might to resist, my mind races backwards.Those eyes, the passion, the basement, the tears, the hugs, the hands, the warmth, that fire, that hope, changing colours and inconsistent promises.
And the ensuing abortion. Of the child I allowed to grow within me for a whole six months.
Do they ever abort six month babies?
I don’t think so.
But then again, I would not and cannot bear half a child. Half a head, half a body, half a heart, half a soul.
Half a child, who would receive only half the love it deserves.I walked the corridors of the clinic, lighter, no longer carrying the baby, who was a part of me for so long, whom I nurtured and nourished, in the hope that when it finally came out, it would be a whole, healthy being.
The corridors, which seemed like an endless white maze when I entered, are now just nine white tiles before the clinic’s door.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Then a little leap to the ground, where a white horse carriage waits to take me away.
I cannot take the leap, I’ve just been cut.
So I sit on that ninth white tile, then push myself to the ground, make a steady landing on the firm black earth and climb the carriage that awaits me.
Back to the present, I collect the bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been. . and burn them in the fireplace, wherein there are no flames, only the last few twigs, almost burnt out, and lots of smoke and ash.
Walking back to clean up the mess on the floor of my bag, a get pricked on the toe by one of the tiny glass pieces. I wince, then bend down, smile and collect the remaining trash in the plastic pan.
Just then, almost unnoticed, a tiny white bit of paper, floats onto my hand.
I turn in back and forth, but it has no print.
I toss it into my little box of memories instead of into the bin and retire to bed.
The next day, I come face to face with those eyes again. They look at me, as I walk past. . without the usual hesitant steps and the suppressed blush.
How is it, that the something that consumed all of me just a month ago, now fails to evoke even a spark of that once raging fire?
-Written 9th March 2009
As I turn it upside down to rid it of odds and oddities; shards of glass, pencil shavings, a long lost earring, erasers , pen refills and small change pop out in cacophony.Then I open another compartment, a small one on the inside of the first compartment, and out come a rain of little bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been.
Indecipherable to another, but not to me.
Try as I might to resist, my mind races backwards.Those eyes, the passion, the basement, the tears, the hugs, the hands, the warmth, that fire, that hope, changing colours and inconsistent promises.
And the ensuing abortion. Of the child I allowed to grow within me for a whole six months.
Do they ever abort six month babies?
I don’t think so.
But then again, I would not and cannot bear half a child. Half a head, half a body, half a heart, half a soul.
Half a child, who would receive only half the love it deserves.I walked the corridors of the clinic, lighter, no longer carrying the baby, who was a part of me for so long, whom I nurtured and nourished, in the hope that when it finally came out, it would be a whole, healthy being.
The corridors, which seemed like an endless white maze when I entered, are now just nine white tiles before the clinic’s door.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Then a little leap to the ground, where a white horse carriage waits to take me away.
I cannot take the leap, I’ve just been cut.
So I sit on that ninth white tile, then push myself to the ground, make a steady landing on the firm black earth and climb the carriage that awaits me.
Back to the present, I collect the bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been. . and burn them in the fireplace, wherein there are no flames, only the last few twigs, almost burnt out, and lots of smoke and ash.
Walking back to clean up the mess on the floor of my bag, a get pricked on the toe by one of the tiny glass pieces. I wince, then bend down, smile and collect the remaining trash in the plastic pan.
Just then, almost unnoticed, a tiny white bit of paper, floats onto my hand.
I turn in back and forth, but it has no print.
I toss it into my little box of memories instead of into the bin and retire to bed.
The next day, I come face to face with those eyes again. They look at me, as I walk past. . without the usual hesitant steps and the suppressed blush.
How is it, that the something that consumed all of me just a month ago, now fails to evoke even a spark of that once raging fire?
-Written 9th March 2009
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