21 weeks 2 days

So you go home. You run a bath. You forget to climb inside it. So you wake on a towel on the floor. The bath is cold and you are bleeding.

Your belly protrudes. So you caress it. With soft, round ellipticals you move your palms, your head hangs to one side as the walls pulse. You ache for ice between your legs. So you close your eyes and wade among the darkness and the stars. You find a slit in time and wrench it open. You tear through time and step beyond the fray, away from the bath, away from the blood. You walk. One foot in front of the other until you find last week.

So you climb inside yourself prostrate on the bed. Your belly encased in gel, your baby wriggling on screen. So you count his toes, and call him a worm, sniffing back pride as his long legs kick. You hold your husband's hand. Tight. You hold it tight and say "Of course we'll come with you."

So you travel to Northern Quebec. You eat club sandwiches in bed while it snows and watch re-runs of Friends while he works. You bury your face in a soft pillow case and seal up the fray while you sink deeper into bed with your crumbs, your bump, your family.

So you never get behind the dash. You never drive and you never collide. So you never run from hospital to run a bath. So you never have to tell him. You never have to drop the soap in the tub and watch as it all melts away.