Charts and optimal dates and preferential temperatures. One line or two. As if she could summon whatever it is that makes up the human soul as easily as she could a cab on a busy New York avenue.
Anger pulsed through every fiber of her being. Three times her seed been thwarted from blossoming; the flower nipped in bud.
Ludhiana. Amritsar. New York. Nothing had changed.
It was a girl the words left his lips, and stayed with her, forever ringing. Next time maybe came the consolation, and his X chromosomes consummated with hers again. The routine never wavered. Neither in pattern nor in words.
Three months was all she would get. And then, one word of doctor would bring her world crashing down.
Only not this time, she vowed. And a mother was born in that instant.
* * *
Hot lamp, flexi-neck bent in sorrow. Overhead lights blindly served witness.
Metal tray of instruments. Feet arranged in stirrups. Needle plugged into her wrist.
She wept yet another life they had started and cherished. She wept possibilities.
As the drugs worked their magic, he kissed her forehead. A mother who has lost is still a mother.
They would try again, of course.
Because hope never dies.
And I like to think, four years hence, of a little girl in pigtails, hopscotching along the sidewalk. Or perhaps a boy in denim.
Parents die, and children too.
But hope? It lives forever.