“Sorry, sometimes it’s just not viable and we don’t know why?”

They stared blankly at the peeling paint of the wall. Magnolia, now more like an eggy sick yellow.

If they stared long enough maybe the wall would open up and reveal another dimension where this, THIS word, viable, wasn’t part of their lives.

Oh how vile to not be viable. What a way to put it.

Now a whole photo album of well meaning devastation came back to them.

“It’s one of those things.”

“It’s quite common.”

“We cannot find a viable foetus.”

Viable, Viable a cold and ugly word to them.

Sometimes alone in the deep isolation of sleep they had a dream. It’s sunny, always sunny in this dream space.

Everything moves slowly and there is peace, a crying baby in the nursery they both so desperately wanted.

Then they awake to the deepest sadness of all, it was just a dream.

A perfect dream but mere illusion.

Then one day, in a washing basket sat a green dragon, with mirrors for paws and a squeaky nose.

It signified that their dreams, part of that blessed lucky few, had finally come true.

Copyright John de Gruyther 2017



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