He sat on
the tree stump in front of the house waiting. The winter sky bore down on him
like an omen, crushing his heart in his chest. The snow underfoot shot
incandescent rays upwards towards the stars. Offering a glimmer of hope.
His wife's
cries escaped the house through unexpected apertures filling the still air
around him.
He smoked.
The tip of his cigarette signalled his presence. A flickering red firefly. Out
of season.
He threw
away the butt and lit another one. Arabesque whiffs rose; halo rings rippled;
the red tip pierced the night.
He would
not pray, could not pray. This boy would have to find the strength to live and
no-one could help him, not even the god his wife believed in.
The cries
beckoned to him. He looked towards the house. Behind it the fields rose, snow
covered, fertile. Spring would bring work and summer its fruits. A son would
help him one day. A son like his brothers', big and strong. This time he would
live. This time he would grow up to be a man. To inherit the fertile land that
had been his family's for generations. Land that he broke his back on day after
day for this son that would not come. And he would buy a car one day. For this
son. And a tractor, maybe.
Progress
had reached the little town, and progress would make their work easier. He and
his son. Together they would till the land, reap what they had sown.
The cries
stopped. A new sound filled the air. Higher. A screech. Strong.
He flew
into the house and up the stairs.
The midwife
stood outside the bedroom door blocking his way. The smell of rust filled his
nostrils.
You can't
go in. Not now. Fetch the doctor. A haemorrhage.
And... and
the baby?
Go now.
Run. The baby's fine.
He trod
through the snow picking up speed. The weight of his boots made him stumble down
the footpath to the town and the doctor's home.
His baby
was alive this time. His son was alive. As he ran heavily on, he imagined his
future heir. Strong like his brothers' sons.
Bursting
with pride he said, my boy is alive this time.
The doctor
looked at him questioningly.
My, my
wife...a haemorrhage.
He carried
the doctor's bag, following, through the heavy snow and up to the house. His
house, the home of his wife and newborn son. Past the well and the tree stump
where his cigarettes still lay smouldering. Up the stone steps and through the
dark hallway.
Behind the
half opened door, his bedroom was poorly lit. His wife lay totally still while
the midwife, joined by the doctor, bustled nervously removing drops and lotions
and needles.
At the foot
of the bed, unattended, lay the newborn. Red faced, it panted miserably under a
dirty shroud.
The dark
winter sky bore down on him through the shadeless windows, crushing his heart
in his chest. The candles on the bedside tables shot feeble rays upwards. Offering
just a glimmer of hope.
The rising
crescendo of a cry cracked the stillness. Earsplitting. Inconsolable. The
child.
He moved
heavily towards the bed. Rusty red. His wife, a white petal, lay motionless.
He looked
away and down at the child.
Beseeching,
it wailed. He uncovered the newborn then averted his gaze in defeat.
Sinking to
the ground he buried his eyes in the shroud.
His heir. A
girl.
Matilde Colarossi
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