Dear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;
When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.
I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water from a rusty tap, yet you clung on, holding tightly to the walls of my pelvic region. Wiggling upwards, towards my throat. Past my teeth. You're trying to get out, but my family has decided you won't breathe when you're released from your bloody shackles; you may as well settle down now, sweet son, settle down.
The rest of this, to me, is a blur. There is a car ride, and protestors. I know you had finger nails, eyelids, heft and weight. I know how you were created. I am (was) just stupid, and I knew (thought) I was in love with a deviant, and a bastard, but after you are expelled I will go back to him. I think we both knew that. There is a chair, and an elderly woman, forceps, an injection. And after...there is a hazy forty-five minutes where I believe that I have died. Hope I have died. Realize I have not, and blink slowly under the glare of clinical lighting.
I caught a glimpse of you, my boy, before you were completely removed from this world; bloody chunks quiet and gleaming, no longer moving, no longer clawing your way up my windpipe to exit through the gaps in my teeth.
I don't know if I will miss you.
Antibiotics. My mother cried as she handed me the bulky package. I don't know if she cried for you, or for me, or for herself at my age. I will never know, I won't ever care. I don't even know why I remember that she asked me, after, if I was sure. I believe the proper question would have been are YOU sure, Mother. Are you sure the steps you've taken in your life that have brought us to this point were the ones you intended. Are you sure?
I remember you, small being, as I hold my daughter's hand, now. In a crowded mall, or sweeping dust bunnies from the floor in my kitchen. When my youngest wears blue, I wonder if she looks like you would have, and when my eldest stares at me in that unsettling way, that way only children know how to do, I believe that somewhere, somehow, you're staring at me like that too.