Saint of No Forgiveness, Sinner of No Shame
Rain began to fall over Positano—not a gentle Mediterranean shower, but a torrent, a deluge, the heavens emptying themselves as if in mimicry of my body's rebellion.
I opened the window. I let the rain in. It fell on the workbench, on the velvet, on the dust of the shattered vessel, turning the porcelain ash into a paste, into a mortar, into the mud from which I would build whatever came next.
I placed my hand on my abdomen, still flat, still secretive.
You will not have him, I whispered to the ghost in the photograph. And he will not have you. I will see to it that you both inherit nothing but the rain.
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