Kindle by Trish

If Kindle heard her husband's incessant knocking on the bedroom door you wouldn't know it. Her brown eyes, now swollen from so many hours of crying, stayed locked on the little green satin-covered memory box that lay tucked away on the top shelf of the bookcase in their bedroom. Although willing herself not to, she mentally thumbed through the precious memories that were safely hidden inside of it. The ultrasound photo of her baby's kicking, squirming legs. The tiny lifeless body that for five months had been inside of her and then two days had lied inside this precious box. The cards of condolences. Hospital bracelets. Her baby's footprint. Kindle's mind tenderly handled each one. Slowly, deliberately. She begged for the pangs of emptiness and longing. She prayed to feel the ache of her baby's life cut short because that pain at least seemed more beautiful and purposeful than the heated hate and anger that was now threatening to destroy her marriage. At last, she closed her eyes and willingly succumbed to the grief.
It was 1:15 in the morning when Kindle opened her eyes again. The pillow on Darrin's side of the bed was gone. She sat up and listened in the dark for signs that he might still be awake but the only thing she could hear was the faint barking of the neighborhood dogs. Carefully and quietly she peeled off the old afghan that had cocooned her these past hours and the fact that this warm, soft friend had comforted her once again was not lost to her as she slipped off the bed and out of the room.