It’s March 7.

Today, I woke up and went about my day, like any other day. This morning was filled with meetings for my art gallery and packing for a writing assignment in New Orleans. At noon, I drove out of Seaside to begin the 4-hour drive to the Crescent City. An hour later, I’m cruising along I-10 when I receive text from my co-worker at the Rosemary Beach Fitness Center, where I work part-time. “Anne, you remember that you are working today, right?”

What? OMG! Oh no.

How could I forget THAT? I turned around at the next exit and raced back to work – racking my brain for the answer. Yes, I’m a nomad but I’m an organized one. I know when I’m supposed to be where and I’m there, always. I called my best friend, “How could I do this? It’s not like me. WTF?”

“Trust it.” Jennifer said. “There is something you don’t know.”

She was right. I had no choice but to trust it, but I didn’t like it. On the drive back, I witnessed one car wreck after another. Destruction on the side of the road.  Signs. But what are are they trying to tell me? I pulled in, clocked in and looked at the schedule. There it was. MARCH 7. I stared at the square box with today’s date on the calendar in disbelief. My name was all over it. 

How could I have missed this? 

Then, it hit me..the ton of bricks. It hit me like the cars that would have, if I hadn’t turned around. Today is the day that I got married in 1998. It is also the day that I was scheduled to give birth in 2004 – if I hadn’t terminated my pregnancy. The wedding invitation from the worst day of my life flashed in front of me like a resurrected photo from a closed Instagram account.  I swiped it away, unprepared for the next photo that would fill my mind. A black and white sonogram printed on glossy paper  floated through my memory. The words DELIVERY DATE: MARCH 7  were inscribed in the top right corner.

 

Brain power

Is a powerful thing

How it fights

to keep the heart

from its sting

My Mind is a muther

Fucker, fighting

to bury this day

But My Heart

It can punch

Punch like a sucker

Till the mother in me

.

.

.

Cries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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