Five Months Old

Five months is not much. It's not enough. It's not ready. He will die.

I heard his story while trying to even my own breathing. I don't want to hear this.

But I figured he needed to tell me. He probably had told the same story for months now. I just wished his hand would stay steady on the steering wheel. 

About the waiting, the anticipation, the joy. How it was so difficult. How he asked around and tried to comprehend about what happened. It would be difficult. It would be costly. And what would happened. I bet there were many scenarios played inside his head. 

He had to think about his wife and two little girls. In the end, he had to give up his dream about having a son. 

It was an induced labor. The baby was born dead. I wanted to ask if they named him, but didn't. I thought it would be rude to even ask. They buried the little guy properly, and they prayed in the 40th day. He kept the picture and still cry sometimes whenever he looked at it.

After hearing his story, I still had the same sentences hanging on my tongue. I don't want to hear this. I don't need this.

Then I heard it, as clearly as if it came from my expensive earphone. 

He didn't ask for this. He didn't need for this to happened. Nobody should ever experience something like this. Nobody should ever choose between his wife and unborn son. It's not fair. It will never be fair. 

Thank you for the ride. Thank you for the reminder.

Picture was borrowed from here.


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