Spirits

Trigger warning:  death, hints of abortion

The spirits whisper about me while I rummage through the trash. They speak my name, cry my name and whisper a more precious name, the name made known to me. Oh the trash smells rank, like putrefaction, like rotting meat. It is rotting meat, in some level, discarded, thrown away.

Oh the spirits. They continue to harangue me, to sing me all my good deeds. They are my ancestors, my grandmothers, my great grandmothers and some so faint but definitely my bloodline, their shadows dancing beyond the circle.

Don’t cry for me, mothers, don’t.

Finally, I find him.

He is so small, half the length of my little finger, and I am not a big person. Like a mouse, they always say. I am so quiet, so mousy. I roar inside. I know him. I feel him. He is there. When I lift him out, the spirits, my mothers and their mothers and their mother’s mothers weep, but they welcome him, speak his name. Their song embraces me. In it, I am forgiven.

My hands tremble. I take out the tiny glass bottle filled with clear formaldehyde. I stole it from my lab. In the day, I live with science. My body isn’t science. It is flesh, memory and love. Somewhere, science comes in, lies infiltrate in as science, and I believed.

I slip him, my son, into the bottle. In the dim light, he floats curled like a fiddle-head, as if he is back in my womb.

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