It's Expensive to be Born and it's not Cheap to Die

Brandi’s hand lingered mindlessly at her freshly swelling belly.

She had been bringing talismans to the hospital each week. Sweetpeas and strawberries her patients were too ill to enjoy.

Her grip drifted down to the toy gun colored black, courtesy of the dollar store toy section.

Today, it should be the size of a lime. The acrid, bitter clump of cells buried in my abdomen. Eating up my berries and peas.

Brandi slid an old, cut up hat, unburied from the back of her closet, over her eyes, mumbling about the heat.

It’s expensive to be born and it’s not cheap to die.

Keep the car running, she said.

A woman was arrested for stealing baby formula only a couple counties over.

Brandi slipped out of the car, adopting a pregnant waddle as she rushed the pharmacy.

Chemo is not a summer drug. When everyone is hot and alive in the most lazy ways.

She brandished the gun expertly, yelling incomprehensibly from behind the shop window. I caught the important bit: oxycodone, hydrocodone, xanax, avastin, in the bag, now!

The teenager behind the desk held his hands up awkwardly. From the car, he looked about the size of a pumpkin.