The Sixth

The road curled quiet beneath my feet,

dust rising like breath held too long.

Everyone was gathered—five names spoken,

five tiny bodies nestled into hands

like wishes already granted.

I stood back, last in line,

a smile practiced but slipping,

watching joy rise around me

like fog I couldn’t enter.

The vet gave a nod,

"Only five," he said,

and I nodded too,

as if that wasn’t the edge of something.

But she—

the mother, soft and trembling,

her ribs still heaving like waves unsure if they’re done—

lifted her head and looked at me.

It wasn’t long,

a moment maybe,

but in that look

was a knowing

older than luck.

And then

her body moved again,

a final ripple,

a wet miracle sliding into straw.

Mine.

Tiny. Quiet.

Still slick with the world.

He blinked.

So did I.

The air thinned.

Something turned.

The road narrowed.

And I stepped into it,

no questions,

no return.

This was the drop.

The moment the brake let go.

And forward became

forever.