The Wood Wife
Thoughts crowd and peck like hungry birds, leaving bloody streaks across the mind. No amount of mental hand waving disperses them.
Between crib and window, a big crow of a thought perches, endlessly condemning.
How could you bring him into this world if you loved him?
A hideous face composed of the wallpaper patterns grimaces in agreement.
Tiny, hurried breaths puff against hovering fingers. The sweet scent of powder and baby shampoo, underlain by milk on his breath. Not enough hair to smooth, sparse and pale, a rounded cheek soft as love.
Joy scrabbles in his presence, tiny claws hooking on the slick red wall that distances voices and visions. Persistent as a mouse after nuts, sometimes it squirms within.
From the bathroom, Ross calls. “Leah! It’s time!”
Leah. A label. Labels shrink the infinite to the possible, then to the limited. Well intentioned imprisonment.
Red capsule in the middle of a palm. Slick, smooth, followed by water. Tucked, stuck in a cheek, it goes nowhere.
Ross smiles. The faces in the wallpaper mimic the lopsided quirk of his mouth, the expectant gleam in his eye. They turn with him and leave. Gelatin melts, releases a hidden taste bitter as lost memory. As lost happiness.
