#29: Stillborn

"We've been staring long enough."

But it wasn't long enough, no matter what I tell myself. "There were over 50,000 books published last year," I think. "But I can walk into a bookstore and pick one out in about five minutes. This," I say pointing, "is a lot bigger deal."

It feels like I'm getting through this time. It feels like I understand. But still, I have to just pick one.

Mine was a boy, so that part was obvious enough. The hair made it little easier--fine baby hair like all of theirs. They didn't weigh it, or didn't tell me the weight, or I don't remember, so that doesn't really factor in.

"Just take one, just take that one, now!"

I reach down and look at him. His hand reaches out and grabs my fingers. At 38 weeks, I was having dreams about my baby's hand reaching out--my stretched skin like a thin membrane--and holding my hand. A week later, he was gone.

"That's him!" I hear myself saying. "He picked you over them."

I trip the fire alarm. I move.

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