Birth of a Fatherless Child
My body is as still as a corpse while my obstetrician shaves the rest of my pubic hair, so that she can neatly slice my womb open. I stare at my right hand, into the dark eyes of the black and white photograph I am holding of my husband, Erik. I study his black hair, his defined jaw, his young 29-year-old skin, probing his face for answers, but the picture has no reply. He should be here. How can he not be here for Keira’s birth? Instead, my mom positions herself to the right of the steel operating table, a piece of her curly black hair straying from her cap. Mom speaks in a whisper. “I am going to be next to you the whole time.” She lightly intertwines her fingers with mine, leaving enough space for Erik’s...
Erik Grieve’s Easter Sunday Request
I admired Erik in the shower that Easter Sunday morning. Salt and pepper hair. Deep brown eyes. Broad masculine shoulders covered by smooth olive skin. Steam had filled the bathroom, like the fog that frequently hovered over the Golden Gate Bridge. I could only see parts of his body through the hazy, glass shower doors. He sat against the corner of the tub, as he always did, carefully scraping the skin off of his well-manicured feet. I pulled out an assortment of maternity clothes from the closet and set them on the bathroom counter. Knowing we’d be taking tons of family photos during Tatiana’s first real Easter egg hunt, I wanted to look better than I felt at seven months pregnant. “Ugh!”...
