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.
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.
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.
No. No. NO. NO. NONONONONONO.
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