This afternoon as I was walking downtown, I saw a woman placing bunches of daffodils in tubs outside the corner store.

It’s that time of year again.

Two years ago today, she was still alive. She had a burst of tremendous activity that Wednesday afternoon; while I was on skype with my PhD supervisor, she was wiggling and kicking like she never had before. My belly was rippling and jutting out in places and it was hard to concentrate on my conversation. I thought it was so cool, so neat; I thought, ‘wow! She’s so active in there!’

Anja asphyxiated. Most of the time, I try not to let myself imagine how she died. What it was like for her. Whether she was in pain, or scared. But sometimes, I can’t help myself, and I think of that time on Wednesday afternoon, the day before she died, and wonder if that burst of activity was fear. Panic. A desperate attempt to free herself from her cord, or whatever it was that was stopping her from getting what she needed.

I imagine her thrashing around, anxious and threatened, and then slowly losing strength, slowly dying as I went about my day, oblivious.

These are the thoughts that threaten to undo me.

Two years ago, she spent her last night alive inside me and I hope it was not terror-filled and painful.

Tomorrow I’ll go back to the corner store and buy bunches of daffodils. The first of the year. The first of another year.

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