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:
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,
she let my tears slide out
in their slow, sad