Twenty months ago, on another Friday the 13th, I was headed to the hospital to labour with and deliver my dead daughter.

Twenty feels like an impossible number.

Or, I suppose it is her death that is really, still, impossible seeming.

As I wait outside E’s kindergarten class each morning, I wonder what impossible things the other parents are living with. I wonder if theirs are as impossible as mine. I wonder how impossible is measured, but I suppose the point is that it is not.

Twenty months. And twenty times twenty times twenty to come.

Impossible.

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