He broke down when his wife said the baby in her womb had died. He seldom cried, once when his father was plucked with cancer, another when he thought she’d given him the elbow before he’d proposed, and some kid stuff way back. But this was a gut ripping feel, as if some dark hand had torn through him and pulled at heart and guts, no if or buts. After she’d said it, her words chiselled deep, through bone and skin, deep down within, and he pictured the baby, once kicking, moving tiny hands and fingers, pushing its closed eyes against womb’s wall, mouthing words unheard, unknown, small not yet grown, now, he imagined

still unmoving maybe floating, he didn’t know, just thought things. His other babies had come and grown and climbed and spoke, but not this one, there was the rub, there the choke. Górecki’s Symphony no 3 was in the background piping through the speakers, he had walked off to be alone, the window showed trees, the lawn, birds, sky, him and Górecki, the music and his own gut wrenching moan.

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