“I want to see it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

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.