Everything is silent.
You may think this is nice or soothing, but silence horrifies me.
Silence means that someone might have died.
Silence means that I might have to go back to the house again, with my partner carrying another tiny body bag.
Silence means that I might have to dig yet another grave in my garden, place someone side by side with all my other someone's that I have lost.
Silence means that I might have to stick the little booties away again, put milk powder into the cupboards, hang back up the little onesie with sheep galloping across it.
Silence means that I might have to go back to work and be congratulated for someone who never got much of a chance to exist, and watch their faces fall in sympathy.
Silence means that I might never see someone go to school, or win an egg and spoon race, or draw funny pictures of me that are messy but heartfelt.
Silence means that I might need to go through another depressive phase, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
Silence means that I might have to try again, if I can emotionally cope with it.
Then there is sound, a little whimper that turns into full on crying, from tiny lungs that have only just learnt how to breathe. And I let out a little sigh of relief, my eyes brimming with tears, as my little someone is brought to me, alive and healthy and existing for more than a brief moment.
And in that moment, noise has never sounded so good.
YOU ARE READING
Collection of Stories
Short StoryI haven't got much of a theme in mind for these, but some of them are rather sad. If you stop by, I hope you like them. If not, tell me what I can improve!
