They are parentheses around a period at the end of something. Stacey listens to Margret talk about Henry and the baby. She listens and tries not to be upset. She tries to think of the baby as hers. She experiences a rush of backdated feeling for it. Margaret wishes the baby smelt bad because now it smells like nothing. Stacey thinks of cells growing inside of you then emerging as something separate. She thinks that’s weird. She thinks that’s beautiful. Stacey and Margaret decide to bury the baby in the backyard but can’t find shovels. They dig a hole in the flowerbed with their bare hands. They wrap the baby in a blanket. They say small prayers and cover it with dirt. They are flushed pink and soaked with sweat by the time they finish.
They sit in the kitchen for forty-five minutes. They talk about the heat. It’s supposed to last through the weekend. Both their hands are dirty. They wash together in the kitchen sink then continue to sit in silence.
Margaret leaves a little later.
Stacey stands at the kitchen sink and stares out the window.
Henry comes home smelling like Target popcorn and coffee. He plants a kiss on Stacey’s cheek and asks how her day was. He peels off his heat dampened clothes in the master bedroom. He thinks the room smells odd. He slinks back into the kitchen. He wraps his arms around Stacey’s waist. He sways with her tunelessly.
Stacey stares out the window.
Henry kisses Stacey everywhere he can. He imagines she is a tent flapping in the wind and he must pin her down. He kisses the back of her neck. He kisses her shoulders and bends to kiss an elbow. He lifts her hand and kisses all the way up to her wrists. He sews little kisses onto the lines of her palm and onto each knuckle. He takes her finger into his mouth and sucks and sucks happily until he tastes dirt under her nails. He doesn’t think to ask. ♦
24 | Psychopomp Magazine