On anniversaries

April 5, 2010

I stood in the upstairs bathroom at my in-laws’ house, watching the clock tick away three long minutes.

When the time had passed, I picked up my generic three dollar pregnancy test and held it next to the examples on the instructions.

Two lines meant positive.  But what about one dark line and one really faint line I could barely see?

I called downstairs to Simon, who was laughing about something with his brother.

“Um, Simon, could you come up here a second?”

I heard him take the stairs two at a time, still laughing.  I unlocked the bathroom door so he could come in.

“Yeah?” he said.  “What is it?  You okay?”

I held up the stick.

“Does that look like two lines to you?”

April 5, 2011

We danced to a slow song with our arms wrapped around each other and him whispering jokes in my ear, making me laugh like he often does.

“Ready to go?” he asked when it was over.

“Yeah.  Let me get my sweater.”

On the drive to our flat, we were quiet. Still. Comfortable.

At home, we thanked our friend and walked him to the door, locking it behind him.

Then we climbed the stairs to our room and stood in the dark, looking down, seeing him, hearing him breathe.

Two lines made flesh.

Author: Faith

Faith Dwight is a photographer and a writer. She is a Southern American girl living just north of London with her British husband, Simon and their two halfling sons.

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