Baby
By Melanie Whithaus
My dog caught a rabbit. I never thought he would; he's always enjoyed the chase more than the catch. But now he's wagging his tail proudly, waiting for my praise and for me to accept his gift.
I take the rabbit from him and mumble, "Good boy," though I am sobbing. Hot, wet clouds escape my cracked lips as I cradle the helpless baby to my chest. I feel its trembling brown body grow still and go slack.
I pace the yard in my slippers and my husband's worn overcoat. He's inside, asleep. I know he would toss the rabbit in the dumpster, call the dog inside, and take me to bed. He's logical. Practical. I love my husband, but this weight feels heavier than it should, and he won't understand why I can't let go.
I gently rock you, whispering empty apologies and soft I love yous. The dog follows at my heels, oblivious, still waiting for my praise; I can't discipline him for following his nature.
I look up at the sky. I wish I knew more about constellations to get some comfort from them. The little I know tells me I am a Cancer, a natural caregiver. So, this must be why I have this desire to be painfully consumed by love for another—to feel the weight of another's existence on my chest. Why I welcome this ache. This responsibility, leaving no room for logic—only instinct.
Does this make me weak, too sentimental—unable to face the reality that life is full of meaningless death? That this is all natural—just like the dog's instinct. Just like how I know not to bring up the children my husband and I will never have—how the silence between us has become our form of acceptance.
I bring you to a secluded corner tucked behind the garden shed where the wind can't reach us, but the bitter cold still burns. I kneel on the uneven ground, and sharp rocks dig into my knees.
I press you firmly against my chest. Push you through my breasts, between my ribs, past my beating heart—right into my hollow womb. I do not scream but welcome this agony because this is where you belong, where I can protect you. Keep you safe—
The dog whines at the back door, and the cold seeps into my bones. Logically, I know it's time to leave you. That I can't rely on star signs for guidance. That you will still be here—stiff and hollow-eyed—when the morning sun rises and the frost thaws.
I'll leave you here so the spring rain can renew you, and come summertime when the wildflowers have grown thick, I'll find you. I swear it. I’ll tape your delicate bones back together. Slip a pocket watch into your ribs to wind back lost time—or an egg timer, ticking softly, reminding me to cherish every second we have before you leave me again.
THE END
Author Bio: Melanie Whithaus is a fiction writer based in St. Louis, MO. She has served as assistant editor for the Bodies of Words project by December Press and web editor for the WomenArtsQuarterly Journal. Whithaus’s work appears widely in journals such as Boudin (The McNeese Review), The Quarter(ly) Journal, Palaver Journal, and Umbrella Factory Magazine.