The
Hope
The hope
we have, each time
we couple in our bed as our
son sleeps down the hall, that
this time your womb will not
revolt
again, turn against you,
against us, and kill the life
we had started. I am willing
to stop, not try again, because
seeing
you in the hospital after
each loss is becoming our reality,
our constant rhythm, for the last four
years. After the Northridge quake,
after our
house rose up and fell
(thank God Ben had come to our
bed but five minutes before sensing
something only young children
and animals
can sense), we remodeled
and prepared a room for the second
child, the planned sibling, the one
who has not yet come. How can you
be so stubborn,
so strong, so logical
(it is the lawyer in you!) to keep on
after losing six potential lives? We
have our miracle baby who now stands
almost
as tall as you. We are lucky,
remember? But you answer, I have hope.
Hope. The word hangs and swims and
laughs at me. But I have it, too. The
hope we
have stays with us against all
reason. And so we try again. I hold
you after we love each other (as you hold
your knees to your chest just like the
doctor
told you to) and we dream of
another life in our home. The hope
we have will not leave us. Though
sometimes I wish it would slip away
into the
silent night without a footprint,
without a trace (as they say), leaving
only a small void when our son smiles,
so we could sleep without dreams.
Writer?
Writer?
she asks. Do you write?
I blush and pull my thumb-worn
copy of
Poets & Writers off the
counter, away from the cash
register,
and push the video to
her. Well, kind of, I stammer.
I guess
you can say that I do.
She smiles, takes the video and
scans it
with her Star Wars laser,
across the bar code. Cool movie,
she says,
forgetting her last query,
the one that startled me, made me
think about
what I do late at night
after a long day drafting briefs or
making
court appearances or
consulting with clients about
potential
liability, chains of title,
inverse condemnation, environmental
reports,
and the like. Yes, I do write
late at night when the day's ambitions
bounce
and swirl in my head, I
should have said without hesitation.
Yes, I
write. I am a writer and I am
glad you wondered, glad you asked.
Copyright © 2000 Daniel A. Olivas
