What Ifs

04 Apr

handwritingThe tile is cold under my bare feet as I pace. I bite the inside of my cheek and wring my hands together.

It’s not possible. Even if I wanted, it can’t be possible.


I stop for a moment and run my fingers through my hair.

What if?

I resume pacing.

I don’t have the luxury to entertain what ifs. They will only lead me down the wretched road of disappointment. I won’t let myself go there.

I lace my fingers together and stretch my palms outwards relieving the tension in them and my forearms.

But, what if?

I shake my head to rid myself of the thoughts.

Get a hold of yourself!

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The ticking of the timer mesmerizes me into free-thought.

What if…

I allow a glimmer of hope to settle in my heart and it sends a rushing wave of warmth through me.

My eyes fly open.


The timer dings. I plant my hands on the edge of the counter and stare at the stick.

One pink line.

Not pregnant. I knew it. Good.

I swallow the lump in the back of my throat. My chest takes on a heavy weight and I crumple to the floor in a heap. Tears stream down my cheeks and my body racks with sobs. I take a breath to stifle the crying but I’ve lost control to the weeping.

I give in to it and let it all out. All the pain. All the heartache. Just because my mind went to the what ifs and I let in hope in three minutes.  I grieve what will never be. I grieve the lost dreams. I grieve until I have nothing left.

Stupid fucking what ifs.

©Debi Smith, 2014

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Posted by on April 4, 2014 in Uncategorized


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