I sit here on the toilet seat, stick in hand, waiting for the verdict.
The twinkling of street decorations and the chatter of little children float in through the window. Halloween, the day all the kiddies go trick or treating, and I wonder, is fate going to treat me or will I be tricked once again.
There was a time when I would be doing this with Max by my side, clinging on to each other, hoping, praying, excited, fearful. Mum would be on her knees in prayer pleading and bribing, while dad hovers aimlessly by the telephone.
But now Max is watching telly and mum is out with her five grandchildren. Yes five! It appears that everybody in my family is fertile but me.
I know that they have not stopped caring. I see them tiptoe around me and cringe every time I lash out at them. It’s not their fault. But it’s not mine either. I’m tired. I’m tired of trying again and again and again. It’s like with every iteration something inside me dies. I think that something is hope.
Now, my heart is just as dry and barren as my body.
Does life grow on dry barren land, does a dead tree bear fruit?
I look at the stick for answers.
In response to The Sunday Photo Fiction prompt of June 25th based on photo by Eric Wicklund