Oceans | M.R. Lehman Wiens
The child is crying, his wails cascade down the stairs and flood our home with grief. It’s the sixth time this evening, and our Netflix queue is stuck on a frozen screen. Are you still watching?
She does not look at me, focused on her laptop, as she should be, the physician caring for her patients. She has birthed, nursed, worked her body and mind down to the bare fibers of her existence. She is done.
She coughs once, a soft, delicate sound that tells me what I already know. It’s my turn, has been my turn, and there will be no discussion of the issue. I shouldn’t have to be reminded. I go upstairs and pick our son out of the crib. I sing to him, rock him, and he quiets but does not sleep. Large blue eyes fill the nursery, her eyes, reminding me that love is an ocean, one with tides that ebb and flow, but that never completely disappear.
He and I lie down together, me curled around him inside the crib, as much of a womb as I can be.
He and I sleep.
When she comes upstairs, I hear the creaking of the old floorboards before I feel the touch of her hand on my shoulder. Carefully, slowly, I climb from around our son and follow her back to our bed.
There, we hold each other, our breaths matching, caught in the ebb and flow together.
About the Author:
M.R. Lehman Wiens is a Pushcart-nominated writer and stay-at-home dad living in Kansas. His work has previously appeared, or is upcoming, in Consequence, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Metaworker, The First Line, and others. He can be found on Threads as @lehmanwienswrites.