The Names

by Florence Knapp

She suspects that, to be a good parent, she must pack away the mothering part of herself into a box and gently close the lid on it.

then the seconds are gone. And only frantic, disbelieving minutes follow, minutes where hope is clung to like a punctured life raft. Where breath is blown into a throat drawn closed; where small, dimpled fingers conscientiously tap the digits 9-9-9 into her mother’s phone; where bargains are made with an unfamiliar God; where paramedics glide toward them under a passage of blue lights, still believing there’s someone to save.