You gave birth three times, yet never saw a baby being born until you watched at the foot of my bed. “He’s not as slimy as I expected,” you said. We laughed.
Now, I’m at the foot of your bed. Eyes are closed, your breath labored. I talk about our life, just us two. Things I wanted to say, but never did, until now. Your eyes are still closed. I talk about the birth of my son, your grandson, and your eyelids raise, barely. I see your pupils – lighthouse beacons – and your familiar eyes watch me one last time.
Christina Sponselli lives with her family in Northern California. She has served drinks in a Boston nightclub, formatted patents at an Austin translation company, and packaged smoked salmon in an apple orchard near the California coast. But she was always scribbling her observations in a notebook.
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