Skirt by Amelia

 
He hugs me too tight and says; “Are you taking care of yourself?  How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”  I reply too cheerfully, it’s obviously forced.  Internally I cringe.  I have no fucking desire to have the first meaningful conversation with my father in my entire 32 years to be about how I can’t seem to bring home another live baby.  Later, my husband chides me; “He doesn’t know what to say, he means well.”  I know this.  I do.  But I can’t help him figure out what to say anymore than I can figure out what I want to hear.  I skirt around all the skeletons in our shared closet and lean down to hug my niece.
 
 

Roof by Michelle Ho

The lingering taste of peppermint candy cane and gingerbread find their way across the roof of my mouth. Delicacies and festive spirit are at their best at this time of year, and this is Christmas as we know it.

Note: this one came in after I was asleep but before the Challenge ended.

Roof on Sauce by b303tilly

I am a failure. I had one job to do, and I biffed it. All I had to do was grow another human being inside of my body, and I was so careful. I did everything right. I read the books, quit smoking and drinking. I even gave up caffeine, for godsakes. I knew I was at a high risk for post partum depression, and so I marshaled a support team, and spoke honestly about my concerns to my midwives. I was so ready, so prepared. Over and above all of this was the sheer wonder and excitement of what I was doing. I felt like a mom from the minute I suspected I was pregnant, and over the course of the pregnancy, as me and my little package aced test after test, I became more and more excited.

But I failed. There’s something wrong with my baby. My baby, who even now is unconscious while the surgeons work to repair my screwup. Somewhere, somehow, the genes we passed to our baby got tangled up, and now I cannot even breastfeed her without risking her aspirating. The roof of her mouth never formed. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. And I’m scared.

Roof by b303tilly

It’s hard for me to think about him, because I always wind up imagining his last moments. I start off thinking about his smile, that crazy shit eating grin. I remember his hair, and how it always flopped over into his eyes, those eyes that look just like my father’s. He always threw me the highest in the pool, and the memories of that giddy, terror filled flight makes me happy. I always landed safely, and trusted that I always would. I trusted him. And then, inevitably, I remember. The soul crushing grief he must have been feeling, the overwhelming weight of his pain. I wonder, did the barrel of the gun cut the roof of his mouth? Did the taste of the gun oil make him gag, or was he too far gone down the dark hallway of his despair to even notice? The memorial service was so packed with people that many had to stand along the walls, and out into the vestibule. It struck me then that he had so many who loved him, so many friends crowding around in their grief, and he was all alone. Just like he felt when he was still breathing.

Roof by Lara Hill

"It's still a magical and special time", her Dad attempted.

The words held cold comfort. A sleigh with bells would not pass in front of the moon tonight. A sleigh with bells had never passed in front of the moon. It was a paradigm shift too far in her ten year old world. She felt sulphur on the roof of her mouth, a slight ringing in her ears and the ground beneath her feet unsteady as the snow banks.

Roof by Amanda

My wife killed herself on Christmas Eve. My daughter died a few weeks before that.

A year later, I'm cowering against the back of the closet in the master bedroom. I can't remember the last time I slept in our bed. Even being in this room, where we stayed up late, sticky with sweat; well, it makes me sick to look at the bed.

My daughter's room casts an equal feeling of panic over my heart. She was four. The nurse said we didn't need to bring her into the emergency room if she wasn't wheezing or gasping for breath. We should give her Tylenol for her sore throat and fever. She advised us not to use one of the vaporizers that emit hot steam. Too dangerous.

The cool mist humidifier is still sitting next to her bed. The sheets, sour with the scent of fever, are still fastened to the mattress.

My wife finished shopping early last year. Neatly wrapped presents are piled in our closet with the summer clothes covering them. All of the name tags say "Callie."

I'm looking at them, but I can't bring myself to touch them.

They whisper to me in little crinkling voices. I want to open them and press myself against their blinking lights and plastic eyes. I want to eat them, to take them inside of me and digest them, feel them against the roof of my mouth. They hold ghosts and I want to be one, too.

I'm going to shoot myself here in the light of a bare bulb surrounded by hundreds of darling little bows and the name "Callie." The only thing my wife wrote after these tags was her suicide letter. It was addressed to me.

"I hate everything," it said. "I hate God and I hate you for being alive when she's not. I hate God." At the the bottom of the page she scribbled, "I love you."

It's Christmas Eve again. I've bitten down on the barrel.

--By Amanda www.lastmomonearth.com

Shame by Priscilla Robinson

I could feel myself starting to sweat even though it was cold. I was on a tram in Rome and I was lost again. I was about to panic but there was a good looking traffic cop beside me so I opened my mouth and let the words stumble out.

“Scoozi? Sir?...”

“English. I speak English” He smiled. 

“Sorry but I don’t know where to get off? My station?”

I pulled out the piece of paper I had been carrying around since the visit began. It was stained and crumpled but some of it was still legible. I pointed at the black dot I needed to find.

“Follow me.” He winked. Or maybe I imagined the wink, the gun I saw hanging from his left pocket was making me a little light in the head.

“But first put your rucksack onto your breast.” And he pointed at my bag and then at my chest.

My forehead was clammy. Police back home in Dublin did not speak like this. Was it a poorly translated pick-up line? Or was he just concerned I could be robbed?

Whatever his motivation, it did not matter. I had never been confident about my breasts, now here I was on public transport with a foreign man who was ordering me to keep them hidden.

Like a puppy in love I attempted to win him over - and distract myself - with obedience. In a sudden move, I pulled my rucksack around onto my chest. I marvelled at my deftness.

There was a noise, a very loud rip. He touched my back. “Your coat!” He sighed and shook his head.

I twisted around to see a gaping hole in my red anorak, a fiery colour that would match the hue of my cheeks.

“Ah, I shame you? This is bad. But good, because now you are on red alert!”

 He laughed, and I smiled back and tried to pretend it was funny.