It comes again. This time, more desperate. The cry that sends vibration though my being. The cry I've been longing for and I awaken.
A miesly cord of life attaches me to the physical but the cries stirs up my mother instincts and the monitor, as if upset, goes off with a long beep. The cord breaks.
Equally yolked with life, I am no longer, so I'm pulled towards the cry like sheep to the slaughter house, through hallowed death halls where lives hang on gossamer threads weighed upon by heavy hopes clinging to hopelessness.
The doctor who conducted the abortion approaches me and I stretch out a hand to stop him but he, like the nurses rushing towards my ward, are not bothered by my touch.
I stop in front of a ward filled with supposed sorrows and made eye contact with the man as he breathes his last and fall into eternal sleep. A passionate last kiss from his wife sets my mind back to camp, the tent, the pleasured sin that sprung life in my womb.
The lawyer steps in, a bouquet of flowers for the dead man in his hands with more than work on his mind. The seductive look from the young widow confirms that this man had been given a fist class plane ticket to the afterlife.
If the dead could have a wish it would be a phone call from the land of the dead to reveal secrets hidden in the evil hearts of men, to torment the unjust or to trouble the lives of those who betrayed.
Down the hall new cries are heard coming from the labor room. Happy cries, building the pyramid of life, giving hope in this death house.
"Let's go find your father," I say to my daughter as we cross the bridge to the other side, "for tomorrow we go back to dying."
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