By Harjeet Mander
Rinsing off in the hospital shower.
The water turns pink as it hits the white porcelain tray.
But then red rain. A red hailstorm. A red meteor.
Blood. Tissue. My fetus.
I exit the cubicle and stare at this blob that can’t be washed down the plughole.
“Is that my baby?” I ask the nurse.
She arranges me with heavy-duty pads that absorb whatever else vacates my body.
But nothing can soak up my tears.