Jesse

My name is Jesse  and this is a short story I wrote when thinking about the abortion I had 9 months ago.

The mother wakes up to a cold dreary day.  She looks at her still sleepy face in her bedroom mirror that has been passed down from her grandmother to her mother and now to her.  Thoughts run through her head of what she should name her child.  If baby is a girl, perhaps Ruth or Lilly.

Ruth was her grandmother’s name on her mother’s side.  She remembered those cold nights spent in the upstairs of that home nestled in the corners of the mountains.  Nights spent listening to the talk between adults with the constant noise of Wheel of Fortune followed by Jeopardy on the old television.  Moments spent hiding in the closet that was once used for the same purpose as her young mother.  Afternoons daring to slowly approach the haunted rooms up the long staircase.  She remembers the red glow of sun striking through the orange curtains and falling to the floor creating a rouge pathway to the room that must surely contain hidden ghouls amongst the remains of witchcraft.  As she was an only child these moments were spent alone, but never lonely.

Lilly was the name of one of her great grandmother’s sisters.  This side of the family was from Germany.  The family had been in Berlin for some time, at least until war struck sending her grandmother overseas with an American soldier as a husband.  When visiting Germany at the age of nine she was taken away with the fairy tale land around her.  Time spent chasing sheep in fields of small red flowers with mountains too big for man and yet close enough to touch.  A morning at the market wandering amongst venders that shout for your attention to their wares.  Seemingly endless taste tests of meat, bread, cheese and bountiful amounts of chocolate.  The feelings of that world were hers alone to remember, but never gave a feeling of loneliness.

She stretches and thoughtfully runs her hand across her small tummy that shows no sign of baby.  She glances at the time and realizes that her appointment is not that far off.  She undresses and steps into a warm shower.  The smell of lavender engulfs her and her thoughts drift to the colors she should choose for her baby’s room.  Lavender would be a delightful color.  Her baby girl would find peace and relaxation in tones of soft purples with white accents.  She could give her the white angel that was once her own mother’s to be placed up high to look over her.  The shower stops and the mother silently wraps a towel around her wet body.

She chooses a loose pink shirt today.  Pink for a girl.  Her daughter would always wear pink.  The mother has curly hair and hopes that her daughter has curls like her as well.  She imagines detangling a mess of hair on her daughter when she is five and her hair is long.  Then her little girl will begin to want to straighten it because all her friends will have straight hair.  Nights will be spent with a blowdryer and a hot iron as they gossip in a small bathroom.  The boys will chase her surely.  Arguments will ensue about when and with who she can go out with while she is busy doing her hair in front of an old mirror.

Once dressed she walks to her car and begins her drive to the office.  Her daughter will be what the mother never could be, an artist.  She will grow up with a paintbrush in her hand.  She will always be painting the walls and floors, beautiful messes that will go down in history as her first masterpieces.  Her clothes, her hands, her face and hair will catch the colors as she sits back to admire her work.  The mother arrives at the building on time.

As she waits for the nurse to call her name she Imagines her daughter’s wedding.  She will wear a soft tone on her wedding dress because she is not your average bride and has never fit inside a box.   She will be nervous to walk down the aisle not because she isn’t sure of her husband to be or because she is scared.  She will be nervous because of the happiness that has been built up within her since she was a child.  She will seem to be delicate on that day but really she will be the strongest one there.  She does not need a man but she has chosen her love to be a part of her.  The mother’s name is called.

She enters a white room and is told to undress and lie down a table under a white sheet.  The mother obeys wordlessly.  She closes her eyes but she finds dreaming to be too difficult now.  This silent day is now filled with noise.  The sharp sounds of medical professionals.  The course sound of her breathing getting faster and increasingly shallow.  The jumbled sounds of someone telling her it’s over and now she can leave.

The mother makes it to her car and drives home.  Not imagining or dreaming of anything.  No sobs wrack her body, no tears stain her face.  A lifetime of memories that once had purpose now feel meaningless.  Her life as an only child always seemed so full but this is the first time she feels truly alone.  She had been filled with her ideas and sentiments for her future.  But what is the point now?  She sees her eyes in the car mirror.  How many people died today?  Her eyes fill her with an unquenchable thirst for love.  Who really died today?

My heart is broken and I ask you to tell me, will I ever feel alive again?

 

 

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