'Smile, it might never happen'.

What follows is a short piece of fiction which, like many such writings, is based on something that happened to me (many years ago). I’ve written this today for Babyloss week 9^th-15^th October 2017.

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‘Smile, it might never happen’, the taxi driver said.

Ignorant of, and caring nothing for, the fact that ‘it’ had already happened. His constant stream of thoughtless twaddle a constant for the remainder of the journey.

‘Try not to get too anxious about 'it' all, stress won’t help’, the doctor said.

Probably true, but less than comforting. Yet another denial of the pain I feel for this loss and the fear I have of future ones.

‘Never mind, I’m sure 'it' will all be ok next time’, my well-meaning friend said.

How can she know? How can anyone know? No-one can is the answer.

‘'It's' probably all for the best, likely as not 'it' was deformed’, my - at least it feels to me - not so well-meaning friend said.

I’m being unfair. I’m sure the intention was kind. After all isn’t this just another version of ‘….next time’?

Nothing, absolutely nothing, my workmate said.

A physical and metaphorical crossing of the road after we spot each other on the high street. So worried of saying the wrong thing. So worried of upsetting me as others have. Say nothing and ‘it’ might all be forgotten. Never.  

'I’m so sorry’, my next door neighbour said.

That was all I needed.