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A Short Story
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Short Stories The baby did not cry.
Grey, like a butterfly pupae, he laid scrunched in the doctors hands.
Marie could not see her baby. Jon who stood to her side could. He chewed the inside of his cheek and soothed Marie with one cool palm.
The doctors did not speak.
Marie did not speak.
Jon looked at his son.
A tube was worked gently down into the infant's lungs. The lungs gurgled as the siphon pulled ambiotic from them, and saw the stale hospital air rush in.
The baby did not cry, but sighed heavily. He did not try to open his eyes.
Marie wanted to see the baby, her baby, but the doctors whisked him away.
Jon dropped Marie's limp hand. He handed Marie a dry towel to clean herself, and followed the doctors from the room.
The baby died three days later. Marie thought she had never seen a casket so small.
Jon divorced Marie. She was 40. He went on to have three sons who were all as weak minded as their father, and as sinewy as their young mother.
Marie married a widower with one daughter. Her step-daughter soon called her "Mama", and in this way, Marie was satisfied.
