I wished, the crying in the middle of the night would stop and it did. The laughter stopped too, but the scent of baby powder still clings to my arms.
“Sweetie, what on EARTH are you doing?” Claire asked, beyond surprised to see Chelsea, her pig-tailed, freckle-cheeked, pink-shorts-wearing four year-old daughter, hopping repeatedly on one foot for balance while jamming the other down the toilet, two dandelions grasped in one hand while the other worked the flushing lever.
“Well we bringed flowers to Grampa in the hospital yesterday, so now I’m gonna bring flowers to Bubbles,” Chelsea answered matter-of-factly, of course referring to her comrade who had, several weeks ago after a violent incident involving one of his (larger and more aggressive) bowl-mates, been sent via toilet flush to the fishy hospital.
Sitting awkwardly and gripping the tools, there is a moment of reverence before the act and a whispered prayer for fertility.
In an uncomfortable moment, she can’t help but wonder if people will be able to tell that the baby’s father was a turkey baster.
My five year old daughter asks her mother to read her a bedtime story every night.
Her mother died five years ago in childbirth.
She lay in bed, burying her head under the pillow, replaying the sensation of his fingers on her skin. Two weeks had passed and it would be fourteen more endless days before she saw him again.
There are at least two hundred mass murderers in the world that are still active, the Facebook news story told her.
“Honey, dinner’s ready!” her mother called, entering the room with a carving knife.
In the twenty years since my mother died, I had never known what to do with myself. Now, seeing my father marry his high school sweetheart, I realized what had to be done.