A whimper in the empty room . . .
It’s mine.
I raise my head to stare in the mirror and I step back some at the horrific image I see.
Blurred kajal in my darkened eyes, runny mascara, flowing foundation, smudged brown powder; all these join together to make up the bride-of-Frankenstein look I now wear. And worse, the tears that have caused this make-up mayhem are still running loose, down my cheeks in rivulets, and past lips parted to grasp some breath of air to soothe my aching throat.
Soothe my heavy heart, if they can.
And they flow on, ignorant of my inability to understand why they flow now or what has caused my lachrymatory glands to release the early April rain at a time when I should be happy, rejoicing, celebrating.
My fists clench at the thought.
I am six weeks along, pregnant with my first child, by my wonderful husband. He is the love of my life, the joy of my existence, the wind beneath my sails, the wings of my love; he’s all these and more. He’s loving and caring and thoughtful and generous and kind and, he’s a great guy, with a great sense of humour and a long chiming laugh that makes my breath catch in my throat.
And it catches now, like always, as air clogs my trachea and threatens to choke me, the tears welling in my eyes again, pulling at my arteries, threatening to burst my capillaries and kill me with this pain. I sob uncontrollably, head falling forward onto weak arms now supported by the bathroom sink I'm standing before.
I’ve got all I ever wanted. So why this pain?
“Honey, are you okay?” I hear my husband ask gently as he comes up behind me, one tenderly placed hand resting on my shoulder.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, unbelieving of how strong and different I sound. “I’m okay.”
“Are you crying?” he asks now, his other hand now resting on my other shoulder. “Come on, baby; talk to me. I'm here for you.”
I sniffle loudly and lift my head slowly to meet his eyes in the mirror. His look of concern is so great, I begin crying again.
“Awwwww, darling; come to me.” He turns me around quickly and holds me to himself, my head against his chest, my ear listening distractedly to his heartbeat. “Let me hold you,” he whispers quietly.
And he mutters sweet nothings to me; he tells me he loves me and he cherishes me. He goes on and on, muttering, stroking my head. I hear him, like a voice from deep down in a tunnel, far away, some echo fading to nothing on my mind’s mists.
Until: “It’s just your hormones, baby. You’ll be fine.”
And the tears begin again; because now, I know just why this April rain has come in spring.
And I wish it was just the hormones.
But it’s not them.
It’s me.
And it’s him.
It should not be him telling me this. It should be Soji, whispering in my ears, telling me he loves me, holding me, kissing my forehead so softly, slowly, here, with me, having this baby with me, building this family with me, standing with me and . . .
But it’s not him. It’s Niran, standing with me, holding me, that I'm having this baby with, that’s whispering in my hair how much he loves me, kissing my forehead, gently, slowly.
And it’s Niran I hold on to tightly, weeping for the love I lost in the winter of ’78 and the love I'm losing to its hovering memory.
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