My Unnamed Sister

There are four of us, four sons that is. Our father, a stoic and strong-hearted man, finds emotions the worries of softer folk. He once told me not to seek acceptance for when they open their arms, they can still choke you in their hug. I learnt that day not to hug my father.

I was only very young when it happened. My mother - bless her soul - was one of few women in the town worthy of the rich man's hospital. We were not rich by any means, but a good friendship with the head doctor meant backdoor entry.

The night was chilly, I remember, a great thunderstorm was rolling in. I recall cowering beneath the arm of my eldest brother in fear of the rumbling horrors outside.

Mother was shouting all evening, screaming words I had only ever heard older children say to each other in the playground. Father had not uttered a single breath the entire time. Stiff as a firepole, we used to call him.

When the ruckus had occurred, the groaning and heaving behind the door, my brothers and I clutched the arms of the chairs we sat on. Worried for the health of both our parents, we waited quietly, thinking through what relatives were the best choice to live with if we lost our parents.

Then the hall fell silent, the unoiled rocking of a baby's cot echoing from down the corridor. A man, dressed in white and a robe that reached his shoes exited the room smiling. Father, the man we thought suffered from a permanent snarl, giggled to himself. He waved us in.

We followed his command as we had always done. Beside my mother on the bed was a cute little thing, a baby still red from birth. My brothers and I grabbed each other with elation. We had another sibling! Huddled around the petit body of the child, we spoke incoherent baby talk.

Ooboolala, meemee moomoo mama, habababooboo.

On my shoulder, I felt a hand. Turning around, I saw my father's smile, a rare thing, one that had not been seen since before I was born. I knew that night was special.

Returning from his break, the doctor cleared his throat. He spoke of important obligations mother and father had to complete before leaving the hospital. He asked them if they wouldn't mind helping my brothers and I vacate the room. So we did.

With my back turned to the bed, I heard a sound I would forever dread. A soft pattering cough, a tender gentle heave. Faster than he had ever done, father pushed the four of us out the door and slammed it shut. We retook our seats opposite it, oblivious to what was happening.

The doctor, out of breath and weary-looking, opened the door to shout for a nurse. Several responded to his call, rushing into the room before locking us out again.

Blinded by his tears, father snuck out the door. "Get to the car!" he shouted, hitting my eldest brother in the back as motivation. The anger in his voice was rife, uncontrolling.

After that night, we did not see mother again. We lost her to a broken heart, father says, and we lost the child they had not yet named. My unnamed sister. Long may she rest in whatever peace a dead baby can find, sinless and forgiving.