In the back of the room, covered in artificial light, my eyes squeeze tight like a fist. This isn’t the first instance I have waited too late. My mind races through the long list as if my whole life depends on this moment. After forced repentance, I pledge to be compassionate, humble, even giving, if only my prayer would be answered.
Apprehensively, a staunch nurse brings me the tiny pink bundle. Through strained blurry eyes, she glows magically, the essence of my dearly departed wife. The understanding staff gives us an hour alone. I hesitant, for this is the first and last time the baby will ever see her mother; the knowledge is straining my already crushed soul. Sadly, the family moment cannot comfort the wails of my hungry daughter or ease my crippled heart. Together we cry.
About the Author
Jan Campana lives in Raleigh, NC with her husband and two sons. She recently discovered flash fiction and is passionately reading and writing all she can. Her previous works can be found at The Californian, The News and Observer, and at postcardshorts.