
Miscarriage
My husband holds me by the waist, walking me carefully across the street, and asks if I am okay, though I know he is also not My mother sends four text messages waiting for my call, chokes down marble-sized tears when I tell her, and breathes audibly into our silence My brother hugs me tightly with one arm, chooses "I love you," over "I told you so," consoles me like we are still children now that I'm no longer carrying one Co-workers ask me how mama is feeling and because I refuse to cry at work again, I minimize and detach, say "It's a no-go," and lie that the warning signs made it easier My sister sends sonograms of her baby-to-be, images of a large head encircled by a tiny frame so distinctly divergent from the imperfect circle and scattered squiggly lines I saw on mine My father says little but makes the sweetheart cider, perfecting the recipe to six parts apples, one part triple sec, and one part tequila, the whole carafe concocted just for me