Emma

TW: This book contains content on miscarriage, pregnancy loss, and associated grief.

It had been three weeks. It had felt like three years. He had cracked open a window in their bedroom, and the faint smell of smoke had wafted in, along with a cool breeze that settled on her shoulder like an old friend. She hadn't expected the day to come when she would feel anything again, but here she was, the light breaking through the dark musty curtains of their bedroom and waking her from another deep sleep. Autumn had come, and despite herself, she felt the smallest hint of a smile break along her cracked lips. She winced as the feeling made her cheeks ache, the movement having become so foreign to her. Her gaze drifted to her hand, which still clutched the sheet that had somehow gotten rumpled below her. But there was something else there, something small and pink and soft. A single pink sock, only big enough for a tiny foot. She slowly opened her fingers and watched as the little sock expanded from its crumpled form to lay flat in her palm.

Another breeze drifted in through the window, and the sock shifted slightly. She watched it, unmoving, taking in another slow breath that sounded a little raspy in the silence of the afternoon. She heard the soft clunk of what she guessed was a log being tossed onto a fire outside, and a soft humming as someone crunched freshly fallen leaves in the backyard.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk.

The smell of smoke grew slightly, tickling her nose, and she felt for the first time a need to go see the fire, to sit by the flames. Her gaze drifted from the little sock to the window and back again. Her chest tightened, feeling unsure and guilty for wanting to leave this space where she could simmer in her grief, replaying her loss in her mind until it was all she could remember. She turned onto her back and lifted the little sock into the air, the letter "E" stitched in cursive into the ankle. Her finger gently traced the line of the letter, the stitching having come loose in several places. How many times had she traced that letter? A hundred? A thousand? As if on queue, the humming outside grew louder, though not obtrusive.

She took a deep breath. Another. And Another. He was waiting for her, calling to her. Come back, he was singing to her, humming to one of their favorite songs. Come back to me, he was coaxing. It is time, he was saying, without saying anything at all. He would not force her to come. He would wait for as long as she needed. But that did not mean he would not try to pull her from the dark place where she had gone, thinking only of her loss, of their loss, replaying every moment that led to it and questioning every choice she had made. Feeling broken. Feeling alone.

The little sock stared back at her, daring her to stay longer. Pleading with her not to go. How could she leave the little one who would never be? How could she move on from the joy that had been stripped away? From the life that her daughter would never live? She felt her fragile resolve begin to fade, and her eyes felt heavy as if holding the weight of the world. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she began to drift...

Another breeze floated in though the window. Come back, it echoed, ruffling her hair to fall in front of her reopened eyes, the little sock falling half out of view. Her attention drew back to the humming outside, and the sound of the fire, now crackling loud enough for her to hear in faint bursts. The pain and the memory would never leave her, of that she was certain. But life...life awaited her outside on this crisp autumn day. He waited for her.

Clunk. She had the strangest urge to chuckle, though she couldn't quite get the sound to come out of her dry throat. He was putting too many logs on the fire, as usual.

The thought gave her just enough encouragement to sit up. Her muscles creaked with the effort, but the new perspective allowed her to stare forward at their dresser with its drawers half open. A still steaming mug of tea was resting on top, orange and red leaves carved delicately into its surface. Her favorite mug. When had that gotten there, she wondered, a half smile curling her lips on this time as the humming outside continued.

Her gaze drifted to the side and the smile quickly faded. A small wooden box sat open next to her on the bed with various items inside - a cloth bib with small purple flowers, a wooden rattle, a pair of pink knit booties, and the mate to the sock she still held clutched in her hand. When had she first opened the box? She didn't know. Time had slowed in the hours, days and weeks after she had been lost. Emma. That was her name. That would have been her name, she correct herself, and her chest ached.

She pressed the little sock to her cheek and inhaled deeply. As she exhaled, she glanced back towards the open window and then to the French doors beside it that would lead her to where the embers glowed and the man who loved her waited for her to come back to him. Shivering slightly now in the breeze, she felt her heart pull towards the one outside who called to her and the warmth of the fire.

But she was not ready. She could not go, not yet. Maybe not ever.

Another breeze swirled in through the window. It is time, it seemed to say, and the mirror above the dresser rattled to draw her attention. She followed the wind with her gaze, taking in her appearance for the first time in days. Her hair was a mess, tangled and about a week overdue for a wash. Her eyes were red and haunted, with dark circles sinking deep. Her skin was clammy and pale, and her shirt was thin and hung limply off of one shoulder. She did not want to see what she had become, but she could not look away from the shadow of her former self. When had she become this shell, she wondered. Even in her grief, she knew what she saw was too much.

It is time, she agreed reluctantly, and the breeze blew once again through the window as if to signal its approval.

She gingerly placed the little pink sock, its color faded and texture slightly matted from being held tightly for so long, next to its match in the box, and then reached for the box's top. I love you, she thought, I will always love you, my sweet girl. She slid the top on the box and rested her palm on its carved wooden surface. Time passed as she sat willing herself to move. She was not sure how long.

The breeze blew again, more forceful this time. Come back, it seemed to say again, shifting her body enough that she had to catch herself to ensure she did not fall forward, her hand moving from the box to grasp one of the posts of her bed. Once she felt steady, she moved to stand and grasped the box with both hands, placing it on the dresser. She was not ready to leave the memory behind, but she would put it aside for now, just for today, choosing to take one small step forward.

She picked up the mug of tea. Cinnamon and clove along with a host of spices she could not name filled her with comfort as she inhaled their scent. She raised the mug to her lips and took a small sip. She had consumed so little the past few weeks it felt almost overwhelming to have such a burst of flavor even in such a small dose. But it also quickly filled her mind with warm memories of late nights consumed with laughter and love, of strength and compassion in hardship, and of the hand that held hers through every moment she would allow it to in her grief.

The humming died down outside, and the wind had stilled, though the crackling continued. They were both waiting, she knew, to see if today might be different. If today might be better.

It would.

She took another sip of tea, opened one of the doors, and stepped outside into the light.