The Woman

“Well I must tell you that you will have to abort this pregnancy and any other subsequent pregnancies due to the medical necessity of the situation. Which I'm sure you understand. And it really is a shame but I'm afraid it's just the nature of the predicament.” And the Dr. nodded and cooed with practiced sincerity.

“Oh I see.” said the woman with plump little cheeks and dreamy blue eyes and no time for nonsense. And she left with her second hand purse and a smug dissatisfaction and her first pregnancy. And out of what the doctors must have considered “religious fervor” or “medical ignorance” allowed the pregnancy to continue to grow inside of her and then proceeded to feed it and talk to it once it left her body. And then in a quiet act of protest let six more pregnancies do likewise until her little house on Maple St. was very noisy and filled with ridiculous painting. Preposterous quantities of food sat in the pantry awaiting their demise until they were cut and mixed and heated causing a smell so warm and true that it almost hurt. And then it vanished just as quickly.

And before the babies spoke they were who the woman thought they were. But eventually they would speak and prove to be someone else entirely.

Small voices guessed at things and were corrected delicately.

“You mustn't throw cans.”

“But it was a small can.”

“Nonetheless.”

Or.

“You must wear a shirt.”

“Here.  Is this okay?”

“No dear. Wings don't count as a shirt.”

And the husband was tanned and wild and didn't know how to handle children at first. At times he would twirl them and spin them to hear them laugh, but was given quiet dreamy blue looks, and soon held the children properly.

The woman's voice and cheeks and lips were tired from laughing and screaming. Her hands were tired from spanking and hugging and cooking.

Winters were cold. The children would bundle up together and squeal with laughter deep into the night. And the tanned man was older now, and would tell them to hush up. And they would, and then they would squeal again. And the tanned man would pucker out his lips and pinch them so as not to smile and lose his authority.

The woman was warm because she was always cooking. Lasagna and bean soup would steam up the air in the little kitchen. And the steam or maybe a small child would wrap around her and make her warm. And she was tired and she would smile and her blue eyes were deeper in the dream.

And in the summer it was hot. She would watch the children fill up buckets and dunk their heads until they were wet and cool. And they would scream and fight and laugh. And most of her words were spent mediating unthinkable accusations, the sort only children can think of.

And she and the tanned man would yell and cry when they got scared. But on Friday nights she would put on lipstick and they would go on a date and talk about things and remember each other.

The beauty of her youth was now a different kind of beauty. She had been trim and sharp and had rested her misty gaze on things from afar. But now everything about the woman was soft and steady and close. And her smile was quiet and kind and she was always dying. And the death found her in small ways, like long naps and hidden pain. Then late one evening the doctors were all right, and she left surrounded by the pregnancies.