Varying Degrees

The morning sun streams in the window, winking off dust motes floating in the air. But you don’t see their happy dance. You stare at the carpet, picking out every shining strand of synthetic fiber in the pile. You arms feel heavy; your whole body is heavy. Your face is numb. It rolls down your face like tears might, if you had any left. It’s like sorghum molasses, coating everything and forcing your eyes to close. It may have been a half hour since he left or it may have been days. Your stomach gnaws at you, tired of being ignored, but you just sit there. The bed used to be comfortable, but now you can’t lie down. His smell is there. You can’t bear the weight, the pressure bearing down on your mind. You don’t even feel yourself hitting the floor. That’s where they find you, three days later.

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Every nerve in her throat screams with her. The tears stream down her face and she begins to cough as her breath catches. She chokes for a full minute before regaining a sort of composure and picking up her normal rhythm. She tears at her scalp, raking her fingernails down to her face. A whimpering whine escapes her lips as she paces the floor. You tried to tell her that they did everything they could— that he was almost gone when she brought him to the emergency room, that losing her baby was inevitable. You try to do this, to comfort her, and feel your heart sink to the bottom of your chest cavity as you watch her frenetic pacing. She collapses on the plastic-covered couch provided for nervous loved ones to sit and wait on. She buries her head in her lap, shaking her head in denial, grinding her tears into her hands. You put your hand on her head and wonder how to explain that you couldn’t save her baby. Your son.

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With a half-smile on your lips—only half meant— you glance at the reflection in the mirror on your way out. Do my eyes seem unnaturally bright?  you wonder.  No. It’s that same old faded blue jeans color, and the residual puffiness has died away in the night. You wonder if anyone will be able to tell at work. Dock workers aren’t known for their sensitivity. You grab your keys and step out the door, careful as ever not to knock over her obsessively arranged rabbit figurines. Your resolve falters as you look into their ridiculous, smiling faces. She loved to collect them, and the joy with which she added another member to the warren would make you smile. You scrunch your eyes against the memories and shut the door. It doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone, and now she’ll be happy all the time.

That’s all you want—all you’ve ever wanted. You clench the steering wheel and feel the stitching biting into your skin. Come on. Just go. Just get on with it. She doesn’t need you anymore. You will yourself to go on. You fake another smile at yourself in the rearview. See? It’s alright. It’s ok. You can do this. You put the car in gear and halfway to work, you think you see her. Your eyes fix so steadily on the woman that used to be yours that you don’t see the forest green bronco. It plows through your front windshield as you decide, no, it wasn’t her.