The milky walls of your cubicle are far from the freedom we’d felt barrelling down the highway, silver moon filling up our rear-view, palms pressed to your swollen belly.
At my feet, the overnight bag we packed weeks ago is crowded with items from the birthing bag checklist found online: scratch mittens, muslin squares, sleepsuits. Useless now.
The nurse hands us a grey-white block of putty and explains how it can be cathartic to cast clay footprints as keepsakes.
Above us, the moon has dissolved, swallowed by cloud, and I worry that its hazy light won’t be enough to steady us both.
Saturday 24 June 2023
'The Moon is Made from Clay' by Keely O'Shaughnessy
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