To be published by The Wild Rose Press June 21, 2023!
August 21, 2020
The howling baby abandoned on my front step quieted as soon as I opened the door. I stood for a moment in frozen silence. Am I imagining this? Glancing around my neatly tended front yard, I saw no other clues as to how this child had arrived. A few scuffle marks were left in the dirt perhaps, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.
As I crouched down to get a closer look, the baby hiccuped and began to cry again. As if on cue, my swollen breasts began to leak. Tingly shocks of electricity gave way to nature’s call. Life was cruel. Was this a joke? A delusion? I looked down at my now milk-soaked tee-shirt confirming that I was indeed awake. Just a few short days ago I had given birth. A son. A prank that God had played on me. A moment of glory, only to be snatched away. I had buried him myself. My bloated, swollen body had moved slowly. The shovel held tight in my hand as I blindly dug at the earth. My tears watered the soil as I placed his small, bundled form in the midst of my rose garden.
I awoke this morning feeling as though my breasts had turned to stone. No one warned me that your milk keeps coming even after your baby is gone.
Snapping out of my haze, I eased myself to the ground next to the box. A baby in a box. This can’t be. I must be imagining it, or dreaming. I reached down, tucking my fingers behind the child, lifting him gently. Was it a boy? The pastel, elephant printed fleece provided me with no clue. I rose awkwardly, my body still weak and sore. The child is now nestled on my shoulder, still crying. My breasts are still somehow aching and dripping. Only yesterday I had frantically dug out the breast pump I had been given at my shower. It was still wrapped in golden paper tied with pink and blue ribbon. Without even washing the apparatus, I pulled out the enclosed pamphlet and followed the directions as I sobbed in relief. Within a few painful moments, each of the pump’s bottles were full. I dumped the contents onto the rose bushes. It seemed a waste to simply drain the liquid gold down the sink.
Quickly, I carried the child into the house. Then, thinking twice, I stepped back outside to pull the box in as well. Easing the door shut, I clicked the lock in place and pushed the box with my foot as we made our way to the couch. Gently laying the child down, I regarded the small bundle. He or she was swaddled in two light blankets. A few extra folded blankets, five diapers and a container of wipes had been nestled under the child. The baby regarded me silently. I stared back, knowing exactly what it was that I wanted to do. I looked down into this tiny face, and lifted the child to my breast.
Sweet relief flooded my system as my milk let down. I smiled at this foreign child whose tiny pink lips seem at home here. It makes no sense. I know this. I haven’t been away from society for so long that I can’t see the absurdity of the situation. And yet, this soft head, full of downy silken tresses, so different from my son’s, has nestled into me. Tears silently stream down my face at just the thought of him. A life snatched away at birth. That’s all that God would give me. Why even give me that, just to take it from me? Allowing me to see the beauty of a life that cannot be? Even in that short time between his birth and burial, I’d memorized his milky scent, the swirl of dark hair, his almond hooded eyes. A stray tear plunks onto this baby’s head. I quickly wiped it away and watched the child ravenously gulp until slumber took over. Eventually, I ease the sleeping child off of me. Placing the warm bundle on the couch, I study the scrunched up face. Had I really just nursed a child that I found on my doorstep? And now what? Call the police? Tell them that I just happened to birth my own child, at home a few days ago? That I just happened to bury his small form in my yard? That I just happened to find a new child, and wanted to keep it for myself?
It was beyond absurd. I had not even yet filled out a birth certificate. A death certificate. Not to mention that I buried my son myself. Wasn’t that illegal? And what would come of this baby? Foster care? That was a sentence almost as bad as death. I should know. I had lived it.
Sara Zavacki-Moore 