The Pram

by Joe Hill

my wife miscarried in the bathroom. I mopped up the blood myself, used a whole tub of Lysol Wipes, and now it feels like we live in a morgue.

Two black, wizened, childlike fingers reached out from within and closed around the lip of the basket.

The universe had settled into the business of taking things away from him:

circles of trees containing little eddies of energy.

The bridle path focused all that energy into something he could almost pick up and hold, something that wanted to be held and sung to. He had to push a little more, a little longer. He thought if he pushed the pram another time or two, he might get back from the country store with a child instead of groceries. A plump baby with his mother’s delicate skin, his father’s slate-gray eyes, and plump, grasping hands.

gypsy moth caterpillar, fat and bristling with wiry black hairs. He thought it wasn’t a baby at all, only something wearing the idea of a baby, and wearing it badly. A low, rattling, knocking sound began in its throat, a sound halfway between the purr of a cat and the clatter of a worn-out crankshaft thudding in an idling engine.

“I always wanted a boy, William. I prayed for one and you see . . . sometimes prayers are answered!