Transit

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]

She wanted a girl. She didn’t get one. That was a year ago now. The end of the world is coming and we asked it to. She said it is impossible not to love a being you made in your body, so she loves the child the same. Everyone gets exactly what they want. When the world ends, satellites will still blink up there, and some, by design, will take photos of it. I imagine her in delivery, curls slicked flat to her scalp by sweat, the tough meat her grip makes of her hands, but I cannot envision her pain. I am telling this from the impossible distance a year put between me and the birth. There are worlds everywhere. We’ve inferred that from the way a far-off star will dim, slightly, when one passes for a moment in front. Because we’ll never really meet one another, we must love every inch, even the ones we’ll never see—the small planets of cartilage, for instance, deep in a knuckle. We’ll carry those into ourselves, too: our cells will make room. She wanted a girl and her body gave way. The end of the world is coming, and we will be alone then, but it will be what we want, and above, a machine will take a shot as it bears its witness.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]