It is wedged against the inside of a box of books when I find it. I
tug, not even sure what it is as I do so. A moment later it is in my
hands. A small doorknob sign, cross-stitched with branches and birds
and eggs. Baby Sleeping, it reads. I stare at it unblinking. It is small and light, but my hands feel suddenly heavy.
What is this? Where did it come from?
Then I remember a hopeful friend about 10 years ago and her hopeful
shining face and that sting comes again, that sting in my stomach and in
my eyes. A sting that used to be my constant mocking companion, but
who now only drops by rude and unannounced, like this. I have not
missed him. One last fleeting glance at those delicate nesting birds
and I shove the sign back in the box.
