“I want to see it.”
“Are you sure?”
She frowned at the sticky red placenta in the blue plastic pan.
Could the newborn see it? He eyed the afterbirth and sighed a breath of apathy towards his now-lifeless life-support.
She couldn’t know he’d eventually feel the same about her.
Liz Lambson is a Jane of all trades who might write you a song about painting with cross-stitched sheet music propped on a hand-carved wooden stand. She does things like this when she’s not watching her kids.