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By Michael Chin

The doctor put a hand on my shoulder each wave and counted down from ten for how long I needed to push, and I cried through cycles that lasted hours until we quit and went home to meal-train chicken-bacon-ranch and creamy-broccoli-quinoa and Cajun-shrimp-alfredo that I laughed at and called the dead baby casseroles and that worried you and you cried and we cried and I cried because I’d forgotten what it was like to be alone without another body inside me, and I tried to meditate but I only wound up crying more so I Googled about whether babies gone before they’re baptized can still go to heaven, then tried meditation again and saw a nursery full of soft white light and all of these children in different states of sliding, skipping, swinging, chasing  play and took them one by one by the shoulders as they flew past and I cried and pleaded that if you see—

I never knew what to say after that.

Michael Chin grew up in Utica, New York and currently lives physically in Las Vegas with his wife and son, and online at

Art by Jeff Kallet.


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