2024 Bath Flash Fiction Anthology:

Try Again, Again

Yesterday my sister stopped by under the guise of cheering me up. Without pausing for breath, she dug her nails into my pain, borrowing crumbs of my grief to fuel her stagnant afternoon. Her greedy baby giggled and cooed, angling for a piece of my shredded heart.

I avoided indulgent questions by massaging her maternal ego. “You must be tired. He’s a sweet boy.” If I’d prayed to the God I don’t believe in, would I be the one lamenting chafed nipples and thinning hair?  

Today I’m back at work, robotically expressing gratitude for the three days they allotted my grief. One day for my baby’s butterfly-winged heartbeat to slow and stop; for her porcelain body to be ripped from mine in a flurry of sterile instruments and blood. One day to wilt in bed, the ghost of my daughter nestled at my breast, whispering the name I’d only shared with her. One day to erect a fortress around my anguish, to keep it from eliciting awkward apologies and uncomfortable stares. No one acknowledges the dead baby in the room. I’m thankful. Devastated. Infuriated.

Tonight, my husband tiptoes carefully; everything he says is wrong. I’m sorry (for what?), I understand (you don’t), I want to help (you can’t). His grief is valid. Mine is inescapable, tattooed across my doughy stomach, an initiation to a sisterhood I’m no longer part of. Tonight, I blame him, myself, the doctors, and the God who doesn’t listen.

Tomorrow I will try again, again.