008 A Fiery Ending

(Maya)

My baby is tiny in that bed, a tangle of wires and tape and damp curls.

Her skin is too pale. Her chest lifts in shallow, stubborn breaths.

A doctor’s voice is soft. He says words that mean we’re out of time.

I climb into the bed against every rule they have and I pull her onto my chest. “Hi, my love,” I whisper into her hair. “Mommy’s here. I’m here, I’m here.”

I sing the song I sang at two a.m. feeds.

I tell her I’m sorry. Over and over until the words break.

She warms in my arms and then she doesn’t. Her hand curls around my finger and loosens. The world narrows to the weight of her and the silence that follows.

I do not pass out. I do not scream the ceiling down. I press my mouth to her hair and I memorize it.

I put my palm over her heart and feel her being gone.

I swear, somehow, I will make them pay.

Someone comes to take her and I say no. They try and get me to leave. I say no.

I’m sobbing silent tears.

The nurse with the tired eyes says, “give her a minute,” and blocks