Heather Carnaghan
I smile at the newborn’s first coos and the delicious softness of her peach fuzz hair against my cheek. I am drunk on the smell of sweet, sour milk and so much life to live. Your hair was fine. A single lock was spared by the nurses before your perfect puckered mouth and round cheeks were turned to ash. My consolation prize was taped to ugly paper with an uninspired border that was haphazardly off-center. Why does she get a lifetime of smoothing sleep-dampened hair and frilly bows but I am left with 37 taped strands and a tear-stained box of cinders? I didn’t spill a single tear on her pink and wriggling infant. I saved them all for the desperate ride home camouflaging jagged, jealous thoughts and raw eyes behind unnecessary sunglasses.
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August 2018
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