OCR Text |
Show oxygen, it is breathing. The dead baby breathes. Born from two mothers, not chosen by my father, left for dead by a doctor who swore to do no harm, I know the shape and feel of loss as intimately as the walls of that bucket. In fact, at times, they are the same-unyielding, stern, and cold. Tb be chosen is all I have wanted, to be abandoned, all that I fear. Each memory of my childhood, stories that serve as stepping stones into the past, is underlined by the knowledge that I came into this world discarded. 10 |