Inventory

I scan the bookshelf next to my side of the bed. The double row of books, like an artifact or exhibit of what my focus, our focus, has been the past five years. Memoirs about women, deemed infertile, who eventually got pregnant, books on how to make changes in your life so that you too can get pregnant, two children’s books sent to me by my friend Clare, that I kept close to me as a reminder that one day, I would read these special books, from a loved friend, to my own baby.

Next to the poetry collection for young readers by Naomi Shihab Nye, another book Clare sent me, one on how to use poetry to heal. On the first shelf, a religious charm my partner’s patient gave to him for us. “This necklace has helped many women get pregnant. Once you and your wife give birth, you can pass it on to another woman,” she said. On the bottom shelf, a drawing of a uterus by my friend Meghan. In the drawing, the uterus looks alive, electric, with blues and greens pushing off the page.

I want to feel that alive.

I want to know the secret.

Absent are all the library books I read and returned. The ones that I opened but couldn’t finish. The ones that told me what I should be eating, drinking, thinking on a regular basis. The ones who made me feel like I just wasn’t doing enough, that if I tried harder, we would get pregnant.

To the right of the books, is a stack of journals. Pages are filled with poems, others with notes on what I want to teach our child. What type of human I hope they grow up to be. Their quirks and possible traits written in ink.

Some words smeared from tears.

Now, I can only imagine what would’ve been, knowing it will never be.

I open the fridge and try to ignore the bottom shelf. The one with small blue bags scattered around. The one with over a thousand dollar’s worth of medicine that I will never use, but will instead donate. The sharps container on the kitchen sink, already gone, as if my partner knew I couldn’t stand to look at it again.

On the pantry shelf, bottles of pills that, just like the vials of medicine in the fridge, will never be used, but instead donated to someone else.

Someone else.

Five Christmases where the idea of next year, there would be a baby in our family photos.

Next year.

Next year we will buy presents and stuff our baby in a ridiculous outfit for the holiday.

Now, we know that next year will be like the previous ones. Laps will be empty, hearts will ache, we will put on a smile and enjoy our loved ones, because it hurts too much otherwise.

In the living room, we used the steam box as a tree stand this year. The upside down, wooden box with a red skirt draped on top, our tree balanced, unsure and knowing, it didn’t belong there.

The plastic branches slightly reaching up, as if it were grasping for the ceiling.

Next year, we will get a live tree, and we will decorate it together.

Next year, the light from the tree will be so bright, we won’t need lamps or wall sconces. The glow from the tree will be enough.