By Jenny Rough

In the shower this morning I think of her.
About how I can't remember her name,
or even her face.
Her colors and shape elude me.

But I remember the way she searched the sonogram image
one measure too long.
And the strain in her words that echoed inside:
No heartbeat
No heartbeat
No heartbeat.
I remember the tissue she gave,
and the way she touched my knee;
the silence that mingled with her breath.

She didn't rush me,
I remember.
Instead,
she let my tears slide out
in their slow, sad
time.

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