"What You Wish For When in Pain" by Margo Griffin

Billy stands lost in the doorway, much smaller than I remember. Bruno barks, unsure of who he is, but eventually picks up Billy’s scent and lies back down. Billy has lost more weight and his cheeks sink in like tiny potholes, reminding me of one of those stray dogs we saw in Mexico last year rather than the thirty-two-year-old man I dreamed he’d grow up to be while carrying him in my stomach those long nine months. 

My same brown eyes reflect back at me as my son gazes at me through long, fringy, matted hair. He holds out a tiny box-shaped gift wrapped in newspaper when a sudden breeze comes through the door, chilling me straight to my bones. Billy steps into the hallway, and I close the door, shuddering subtly as I take the present from my son’s weathered hands and wish he won’t stay too long this time.

"Happy birthday, Mama!" 

Billy hugs me, but I barely hug back, afraid he’ll snap in half, like one of those reused birthday-candles whose wax melted one too many times I keep in the pantry drawer. 

My husband Will places my cake on the table and swings his arm around his namesake’s shoulders while they sing Happy Birthday. Billy insists I make a birthday wish, so his father shuts off the lights and I close my eyes tight before blowing out the candles. 

What could it hurt, I think, ashamed of my impulsive wish. My wishes never come true anyway, like my wish for a baby boy who'd have eyes the same shade of green as his daddy, a little boy who'd make friends easily in school, a teenager who'd return money he'd stolen from his aunt's purse or an addict who'd finally get sober. My husband never loses faith, but he always ends up heartsick and disappointed, and it makes me so mad. I've lost my son a dozen times over the years, and I'm tired of grieving. 

Later that night in bed in the dark, Will asks, "What did you wish for?"

I lie there quietly in my shame, pretending to be asleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

We last saw Billy ten months, three weeks, and two days ago–my birthday.

Like most weekends, Will and I keep busy, leaving us less time for wondering. Will’s hands work a jigsaw puzzle while my hands work the needles in the yarn and the radio plays softly in the background. 

Bruno growls strangely, even before the knock at the door. 

Will fits one more piece in place and says, "I should go check." 

My husband opens the door and takes two steps back. A man in uniform, hat in hand, steps inside and asks, "Are you the family of William Ward, Jr.?" 

My husband turns toward me, eyes ablaze with what seems more like an accusation than grief, melting me until I snap in half like a used-up birthday candle and wish. 

Margo has worked in public education for over thirty years and is the mother of two daughters and the best rescue dog ever, Harley. Her work has appeared in places such as Bending Genres, Maudlin House, The Dillydoun Review, MER, HAD, and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin.