Thursday, January 13, 2011

91: Waiting

The doctor said she was pregnant. But she wasn’t showing.  Weeks became months, sonograms became facts and still, nothing.  The doctor, draped in white coat and cross-legged on stool, said, your baby—she—is normal sized, but where she is, I don’t know.  The mother thought about the meals she didn’t eat, couldn’t hold down.  The times she and her father, occupying the same room, resided in different countries.  In the delivery room, she and her husband held hands.  Who will she be, they thought separately, waiting for her to become.

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