Right before you turn forty-one, you will get your IUD removed, the second one you’ve had, and you will not tell your husband. Your hands will clutch the white paper lining of the exam table, you’ll scooch down to the edge, dangle your legs until you lock them into place in the sock-covered stirrups, your nurse practitioner, always so patient, will say, “feel my touch” and, “hear this click,” and with just the slightest pull, the copper T-shape will slide out and you will think of a crack forming in a dammed river, letting a trickle of water run through it. You will say, “Goodbye, old friend,” just like you did for the first one.
You will blame your four-year-old who talks to his imaginary sister, which should not have swayed you as your best friend will tell you who is an active member of the online group One and Done and On the Fence.
You will blame the framed photographs of you at thirty-six weeks pregnant, cradling your blossoming belly, your smile so full of purpose, images meant to ground you in your new home but that now unroot you.
But you will be the one to blame—addicted to the idea of fruitfulness, to the promise of This Is What You Are Doing Now. You will hop down from the table to measure your naked body for ripeness before getting dressed, then ride the elevator down to the ground floor like you are descending into a tide of possibility.
Jenna Martin-Trinka writes creative nonfiction and flash fiction. She lives in the Appalachian region of Virginia with her husband, young son, and truck camper parked in the yard named Emmy Lou. Her day job is teaching Spanish as a public school teacher.
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