Not long after trying Casually after, I scrub the blood from her thighs. In a kinda anti-shock she admires me. Our midwives do what they do with relatively healthy newborns, with ours who I declared an Andrew who was slapped to her chest like tuna on the deck a lifetime ago Cliché earn their worth. Saccharine ads work. We yearn for routine, and doubt pattern. Shit. There will be a last time I hold him. Forget this: when a nap's not happening and home's shit I think about killing myself a whole two seconds. It's been a hundred days since I texted Tiffany, my therapist. I was fine in April. Nearly always now. Do therapists ever call? I'd like mine to like the dentist did to close my file, as if to say, "Your teeth must be perfect."
© Jeff Blackman