She is the one I usually approach for my holiday bookings.

One visit she was in the early stages of pregnancy and tired.

The next she was ready to deliver and tiring of the weight and wait.

Months later she was sleep-deprived, but kept talking about the little one.

Then the baby was almost two, and it was stories of how naughty she had become, her search for a nursery.

Everytime I met her, she was chatty, full of stories.

We were two mothers, exchanging stories.

Then, last October when I met her, she was falling apart. She still did my bookings, but there were no stories…

I knew that would be the case, but didn’t realise how bad it would be.

I couldn’t bring myself to condole her, to speak about the little one she lost at Gympanzee.

What does she do with the little dresses, the smell of baby lotion, the bobby pins under the cushions, the single missing sock that resurfaces, neglected dolls…

How does she cope? All those chapters of stories to handle, and no new ones to add.


One thought on “The Unfinished Stories

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