Paradoxically Yours...

Breathing... but Dying

(prompt: 'news' 7th April 2017)

I swear my heart stopped for a minute, then resumed with that familiar ache.

The words of a beloved song repeated over and over, each refrain more agonising than the last. A song suggesting the guitarist played my pain out loud. The poignant melody pounded in my ears, tearing my heart in two. I was dying all over again as I stared at the sign in the window across the busy road far below. The monotonous non-view of the countless windows of that apartment block rarely interested me. But this day, the sudden movement of one set of curtains caught my eyes, causing them to linger as a woman appeared briefly before taping a sign to the glass.

For Sale: Baby Shoes. Never Worn

I blinked furiously. Salty tears filled my eyes, painfully stinging a slow path down my cheeks and dripping from my jawbone. The pain in my heart felt trapped, as in a vice. The words of the sign caused the flood of memories to match the flow of my tears. Suddenly it was yesterday. And she was still mine. Our grand future lay in wait, momentarily hesitating on the threshold; anticipating our first tentative steps.

~ ~ ~ ~

"I don't think I can take it any more." Her eyes were reddened and swollen - painful too, judging by the amount of blinking of her long, wet lashes. Obviously there'd been news of the latest failure some time before I came home.

At first, when we'd found the time was ripe to make a baby, we'd been bursting with hope and joy. So romantic and exciting - trying deliberately to get pregnant, after the years of doing all in our power not to. When it didn't happen immediately, we didn't mind. More time to get our finances in a better place, to make even more plans and best of all, more excuses to also make love even more often.

At last came the unmistakable signs, the wondrous news confirmed by our doctor. We could officially transform the spare bedroom into our baby's nursery. And we did; fulfilling our every dream, drowning ourselves in the sheer joy of further creation. At 20 weeks we were asked if we wanted to know the sex. Before the moment, we were sure we didn't. But suddenly the curiosity grew with a life of its own - just like our precious foetus. A little girl. A tiny princess. And we were entrusted with the incredible gift of making a castle for her. We secretly chose her first name - Nadia, meaning Hope, but couldn't seem to settle on a second name. At 30 weeks it all went so horribly wrong - the unthinkable - a miscarriage.

The second time it was only 10 weeks. And the third and the fourth? It all became a nightmarish blur. This time, as the weeks wore on, we dared to hope anew. Until now. The last chance, the specialist said this time. We had to face the cruel reality. It was time to consider adoption.

Author's Note: (**NB Paul - NOT part of the word count, OK?)

The original words of the ad in the window are ascribed to Hemingway - supposedly a bet between authors a story could not be written in six words. He produced his story on a napkin at a dinner table - and went into the literary history books.

(Just one sad note - this is an unsubstantiated Hemingway story despite being quoted constantly! But as I've said before, 'why let a bit of truth get in the way of a great story?')