NOT COMPATIBLE WITH LIFE | Caroline Slater

I tuck the newborn into her young mother’s arms
a sliver of flaxen November sun
steals its way between the vinyl curtains
as the Attending removes his stethoscope
looks at me,
time of death 9:18
we wait; allowing, allowing, allowing
the second hand on the wall clock
silently sweeps away the morning
I whisper,
when you’re ready
mother’s gaze follows the bundle
as she lifts her infant up towards me
she is smaller than my own toddler’s dolls
yet still warm from her mother’s body
I lay her in the bassinet
as I would any newborn
and walk back to the nursery
except I walk past the nursery
to the utility room
I place her gently on the table
unwrap her blanket
ten fingers, ten sweet-pea toes
completely complete
at only 20 weeks
and I tell her so
behold this little stranger
so wise and full of things magnificent
I ask her what her favorite color is
call her sweetheart
and darling
I’m right here little one,
I remind us both
and hum a made-up lullaby
I roll the ink pad on her right foot
gently press it to a small white card
repeat this with her hands,
her ears, making keepsakes
for her mother to hold
when she is ready; someday, maybe, never
I choose for her a butter yellow crochet cap
with matching cardigan and booties
as I button the faux pearl at her sternum
it faintly rises and falls
once, twice, three beats per minute
I hold her to my own chest and wait
for the angels to come

Caroline P. Slater grew up in New England, raising her own family among the staggering vistas of the Champlain Valley in northern Vermont. Slater enjoys writing that captures the healing beauty of nature and relies on all four seasons, wise horses, and a perennial garden of heirlooms to stay grounded as an RN, mother, and wife.

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