Wanting

I remember in college once making the remark that I didn't "believe" in infertility treatments. That couples who couldn't have children should adopt one of the tens of thousands of children alone in this world without parents. I remember being disgusted at the millions of self-absorbed dollars that were thrown at the fertility industry. At those poor, driven women who would stop at nothing for a child of their own.

I can almost remember what it felt like to assume that I knew something. What it felt like to believe. To take for granted the fact that I would have my own children. So much so that I didn't even stop to consider compassion.

Having is a weak emotion. Having lets you loosen your grip. Lets you get careless. Wanting is where the strength is, the passion.

These days I grasp for dear life to my mind's picture of my maybe child. Those small, curling fingers. Tiny feet, miniature toenails. All of the love in the world renewed.

My linen closet is stacked with drugs. I have crisp white paper bags full of syringes that terrify me. Small glass vials of clear liquid. I brought them home and proceeded to reorganize the entire closet to make room. To give the impression of calm control. Everything is okay in a house with neatly folded towels.

Any fear, any hope, is hidden quietly among the sheets.