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  • Aisha Majid

This Time

That day she had double taped the cardboard, pulled the elastic band over it—held it closed, held it together, tears splattering without a sound, leaving dark, swollen brown spots. She stares at the box now, gently touches the wrinkles that mar the cardboard. Picks up the scissors, and with shaking hands snaps the elastic, slices through the tape. Closes her eyes, breathes, reaches in and feels the soft cotton under her fingertips. The onesie hangs from her fingers. Newborn. So tiny. She lets go with one hand to touch her stomach. This time. This time, it would be alright.

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