Hello! In school I wrote this short story based off of Ernest Hemingway's shortest poem. I wanted to dive further into the backstory, and, well, here it is. I hope you enjoy!
In nine months I had stored up more dreams than I could possibly count. Things she’d wear, thing’s she’d do, how I’d raise her.
Her first words.
But they were all cut short. All those dreams, all those hopes, stopped; just like her breathing one night. It wasn’t fair! My weak hand tightened around the pen and my breathing became shakier; I was losing it. Just like all the other times. All the other restless nights. I was coming undone. The chair creaked as I sat back a little, putting space between me and the paper and my eyes strained under the lamp’s dim light. It was dangerous for me to be awake at three in the morning, let alone the only one at home. Heaven knows what I could do. But I couldn’t help it. There were so many things to take care of, so many things that needed attention. After the funeral I thought it would be alright. I thought I could push my way through all the pain and tears and work up the courage to move on. But the minute I got home in my dark suit it all crashed down on me. Like an avalanche had burst through the ceiling and was slowly suffocating me.
There was furniture to sell, clothes to donate, books and bottles to pack away. So many things. How was I supposed to do all this when I broke down at the sight of it all? My eyes danced up to the dark world outside my dusty window. They were all peacefully asleep, or dancing at a party; such a stark contrast to my dim bedroom.
My heart clenched and pounded against my ribcage, leaving me breathless and dizzy. But eventually my eyes dilated and I looked back down at my desk, the blank piece of paper still taunting me; daring me to make a move. But I couldn’t.
I vaguely heard the door close downstairs and listened as he made his way up the rickety steps. He probably knew I was awake, I didn’t get much sleep this past month, and was usually up by the time he came home from work. His presence grew stronger until his hand placed itself on my left shoulder and I closed my eyes.
I thought of her delicate fingers and her soft eyes that belonged to her father. But then I thought of Mark and our wedding vows: For better or for worse and a storm brewed inside of me: My future begging me to move forward. And the past, clutching at my heels and dragging them backward. But suddenly a wave of peace flooded over me and I huffed a large breath out. As long as I had Mark by my side and a strong will I could trudge through all this. Our love would bring us both through this. My eyes glanced down at the chicken scratched words now on the same piece of paper.
For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.
