At the Rooftop Garden Emily Miller W ith the song of the birds outside his window, Charlie wakes from his deep sleep. They’re singing him a good morning tune, as was the routine. The sun peeks through the window, shining onto Charlie’s face. Charlie stretches as big as he can before returning the greeting to the birds. His bedroom door creaks open, revealing his mom standing there. “Who are you talking to Charlie?” Charlie motions to the blue birds, sitting right outside his window. With her cup of coffee in hand, Annie looks at her little boy. It was times like these where she thanked God for the gift that Charlie is. Annie’s life wasn’t the happily ever after she dreamt of since she was a kid. She had fallen in love, gotten married, and started her own family, but it was all with a less than ideal guy. Seth was her high school sweetheart, and she thought they would live happily ever after. However, shortly after Charlie was born, they got divorced. They made co-parenting work, that was, until Seth died seven months ago. Annie breaks away from her spiraling thoughts, and looks at her little boy again. “Ohhh,” she takes a sip of her ever-so-fast-cooling coffee, “well, tell the birds you’ll talk to them later, you’re going to be late for school.” About to leave, she watches as Charlie sits unmoving from his bed. She clears her throat, motioning that he get up with a nod of her head before leaving the room. Finally up, Charlie pulls his drawers out from his dresser. He stares into the muddled mess of shirts for a moment, then snaps out of it, grabbing a little button-up with pigeons flying all over. He takes a minute to focus on buttoning each button, then he heads out into the kitchen. Yogurt and fruit sat waiting for him. Annie had tried to arrange the fruit into the shape of a bird, but gave up and arranged a smiley face. Two voices turn Charlie’s attention away from his food. The voices belonged to two bushy tailed squirrels. Charlie scoots closer to get a better listen. “I found it first!” one of the squirrels argues as it tugs a nut closer to its body. “Yeah, well I’m hungrier than you are!” the other replies, pulling twice as hard as his friend. Charlie sets his spoon down and runs to the pantry to grab something. Annie is frantically walking around the house, getting ready for work as well as making sure Charlie is set for his school day. She steps into the kitchen and sees Charlie’s abandoned breakfast at the kitchen table. “Charlie!” she calls out. What is he doing now? “Yeah?” Charlie pokes his head from behind the pantry door, startling his mom. “Oh goodness gracious child, why haven’t you finished eating?” she asks while trying to not get upset over the accidental jump-scare. “The squirrels are fighting over food so I was going to get them more so they can share.” Charlie walks to the sliding door in the kitchen, using his shirt to hold dozens of nuts. Annie eyes the two squirrels sitting on her picnic table, angrily chittering away. She was about to tell him not to encourage the squirrel’s loitering, but notices the time and runs to finish getting ready. “Okay well just hurry up and finish your breakfast!” her voice trails off as Charlie empties his shirt in front of the two eager squirrels. “Oh, thank you little boy!” the squirrels say before filling their cheeks with the delicious gift. “You need to make sure you share; you need to play nice,” Charlie tells them as he dusts his shirt off. ### A s his mom drives him closer to his school, the pit in Charlie’s stomach doubles in size. It’s the first day back after spring break, and Charlie is not looking forward to being stuck in a room all day with his peers. Looking out the window, he tries some breathing exercises that he had been given by the school counselor. A gentle hand on his lap ends his spiraling thoughts. He looks up to see his mom’s hand on his leg. She gives him a reassuring squeeze. In the rearview mirror she makes eye contact with him, “it’s going to be okay.” Charlie gives a half smile before looking out the window again. He places his little hand in his mom’s and holds on tight. “How about we go to the community center today after school? That would be fun,” Annie says, hoping to give him something fun to look forward to. After a pause, she breaks the silence once again, “remember love, nobody can tell you who you are and who you aren’t. You can do anything you want and be whoever you want to be.” This time Charlie replies with a genuine smile, “thanks mom, and I’d love to go to the community center later!” ### C harlie is glad as he is released from his prison. Everyone had been too busy sharing their spring break adventures with each other, that they didn’t have time to pay any mind to him. Typically Charlie spent his school days being heckled and teased by the people who should’ve been his friends, but was glad today was calmer. Standing outside in front of the school, Charlie watches as parents come and pick their kids up. A butterfly catches Charlie’s eye. Fluttering from side to side, it lands on Charlie’s outstretched finger. Holding it close to his face, the butterfly reaches out and tickles his nose, before continuing its journey throughout the world. Charlie’s eyes follow the butterfly’s path, until some classmates draw his attention. “Hey Charlie! Come over here!” Charlie examines the situation, and hesitantly walks over to the group of kids. “Look, there’s a cat! Isn’t it so cute?” one of them asks as Charlie joins the circle. At this point, most of the kids were either on the school buses, or their parents had already picked them up. With the courtyard mostly cleared out, a black cat, who was just a few feet from them, decided to take a nap in the warm, late afternoon sun. Charlie, still second guessing their intentions, nods at the comment. He thought the cat was very cute, but was too nervous to speak up. “Why are you so quiet? Are you okay?” “Are you not a cat person?” “No, he likes all animals, he’ll talk to anything.” “Well why isn’t he talking to this cat?” “Someone just doesn’t seem very chatty today.” “Oh, maybe he’s talking telepathically with the cat!” “He doesn’t actually believe he can talk to animals- does he?” “Well, let’s see what he has to say after this,” one boy breaks from the group, taking several giant leaps towards the cat. With a slight pause, he raises one chubby leg back, before sending it full force into the side of the cat. “No!” Charlie dashes from the group as the kids laugh at him. He watches the screaming cat go flying into the patch of grass right next to the courtyard. Panting, he falls down next to the cat. “Are you okay Miss Cat?!” Shakily standing up, she replies, “I’m alright little boy, thank you for checking on me.” “You didn’t deserve that…” Charlie stretches his hand out, seeing if head scratches were welcome or not. The cat rubs her head under his hand, purring ever so softly. After a moment, her purring stops, “you didn’t deserve that teasing either, I overheard a bit. I’m really sorry. How about we show them a lesson?” she hisses as she turns to look at the group of bullies. They were still mocking Charlie for talking to the cat. “Oh don’t do that Miss Cat,” Charlie interrupts her pathway with his arm. “I know they’re mean… but it isn’t good to take matters into our own hands. They’ll get what they deserve, but let’s just leave them be for now.” Before the cat could reply, Annie drove up in the car, “Charlie, are you ready to go?” “Coming, Mom!” Charlie says standing up, then he looks back at the cat, “it’s your decision, so whatever you end up doing, I wish you luck.” Charlie and his mom were already driving away before he could see what the cat made out of the group of bullies. ### T he community center was a popular place for everyone of all ages. It was several stories high, each level featuring different activities. The first floor had a huge indoor swimming pool with slides. Charlie never liked going there. It was too loud and he didn’t like how kids would splash him in the face. There was also an arcade, a library, a workout gym, and a rooftop garden. Charlie plops down onto a patch of grass located in the quiet undisturbed garden. He is surrounded by bees and butterflies. Little bugs dig around in the loose dirt beside him. With a scoop of his hand, he catches a roly poly. It then starts to climb the infinite ladder which is his fingers, when a pigeon flutters over and lands a few feet away from him. “Hello there little boy,” coos the pigeon. “Hello, Mr. Pigeon. How are you doing today?” asks Charlie, the roly poly continuing its endless journey.. “I’m doing just fine thank you,” replies the pigeon, “I like your shirt,” he rustles his deep blue feathers. Looking down Charlie smiles, the pigeons on his shirt look just like the pigeon in front of him. “Thank you , Mr. Pigeon.” “Please,” the pigeon comes closer, “call me Seth.” Charlie finally lets the roly poly down into the grass, “that’s the same name as my dad—or, it was when he was alive… my mom says that he is always with us though,” Charlie places his hand over his heart, copying what his mother had motioned to him seven months ago, and stares off into the grass. “You’re never alone Charlie.” Charlie looks up, “how—how did you know my name?” “Haha, you just seem like a Charlie! I think you and I have a lot in common, I can just feel it,” Seth rustles his feathers. “Charlie, I need to go to the restroom, you okay being up here by yourself ?” Annie asks while setting the book she had been reading down. “I’m okay, I won’t be by myself,” Charlie motions towards the pigeon and other critters scattered throughout the garden. “Hey,” with a whisper, “do you want to go on an adventure?” Seth asks. “Okay,” Charlie dusts off his hands and stands up. “I have a question for you first,” Seth flies up and lands on a post, so that he is eye to eye with Charlie, “do you believe you can be whatever you want? Be whoever you want to be? Do you believe that Charlie?” Puzzled, Charlie thinks about it. His whole life his parents had always encouraged him with the very words this pigeon is telling him now. “Do you believe in me?” Seth questions, flying to another post, beckoning Charlie to follow. There is just something about his voice, that is familiar to Charlie. As he thinks about his response, he follows the pigeon. “Yes,” Charlie concludes, “I do believe in myself…” “Do you? Where’s the confidence?” Seth hops to a chair. “Yes… I do,” Charlie follows. “Dig deep inside- listen to what your mother has been telling you your whole life!” Seth flutters to the wall. “I do!” Charlie states with confidence, stepping up to the edge of the garden. “And do you believe in me?” Seth hops along the edge. “Yes, I do,” Charlie is standing right along the barrier, the only thing keeping him from falling down the side of the building. “Then follow me,” Seth turns away from Charlie, his wings spreading wide. Charlie hesitates before standing up onto the edge of the roof ’s walls. At that moment, Annie returns from the restroom. “Charlie! No!” she starts running after her son. Charlie turns, but then Seth gets his attention again. “Quick! It’s now or never!” Seth takes flight from the ledge. Charlie leaps after him. Annie watches as her son follows in the steps of his father. Emily Miller With creative juices and ADHD running through her veins, 20 year old Emily finds joy in many artistic endeavors; writing, photography, painting, crocheting, and many other hobbies take up her time. She was beyond excited to have her story "At The Rooftop Garden" and painting "Botanische Malarei" accepted in this year's journal. With an open mind, and plenty of inspiration, she's excited to see what the future holds for her. Emily wants to thank you, reader, for taking the time to look at her art and story, and hopes you have a good day! Social media: chill.your.biscuits (instagram) chillyourbiscuits.com (website)

Art Click here for artist biographies Baghdad 1991.51 Nicole Jette'- Sa rw ar Mixed Media, Charcoal, Ink, Collage 24" x 18" cover on print edition* Botanische Mal ere i Emily Miller Watercolor painting on paper 6" by 9" Aquatic Bloo m Wayne Wilburn Mixed medium 11" by 14" See Through Monserratt Sandoval Charcoal on paper 18" by 24" Tree Jovie Portillo Charcoal and Graphite 18" by 24" Pavement Monserratt Sandoval Charcoal 18" by 24" Skin Galaxy Remus Dublin Ink 9" by 12" Untitled 1812 Nicole Jette' Sarwar Acrylic on canvas board 24” by 18” Scrying Wayne Wilburn Screen print 11" by 14" Baghdad 1991.53 Nicole Jette'-Sarwar Mixed media, charcoal, ink, collage 24" by 18" s' ǝɹǝɥM opl ɐM Remus Dub li n Ink and pen 18” by 24” Waterfall Jovie Portillo Ink and charcoal on paper 18" by 24" Untitled Bailey Moore Ink on multimedia paper inspired by Raoul Dufy 9" by 24" Our Life Monserratt Sandoval Charcoal on paper 18" by 24" Rope Zada Smutz Charcoal on paper 18" by 24" i thought it would stop raining Remus Dublin Ink and pen on paper 18" by 24" Untitled Bailey Moore Charcoal on drawing paper 18" by 24" Kachina Spirit Wayne Wilburn Mixed medium 11" by 14" Self Portrait 19 Nicole Jette'- Sarwar Charcoal on paper 24" by 18" The Red Place Zada Smutz Ink, paint, graphite, and charcoal 9" by 12" Self Portrait Monserratt Sandoval Charcoal, graphite, ink 7" by 10" Acacia Wayne Wilburn Screen print 12" by 18" Fountain Jovie Portillo Charcoal and graphite on paper 18" by 24" Still Life Jovie Portillo Charcoal and graphite on paper 18" by 24" Orange Zada Smutz Ink and paint 9" by 12"

The Bellwether Review promotes original art and writing cultivated by authors and artists attending PCC. We value showcasing work that expresses a diversity of voice and thought. We encourage a passion for meaningful creation, and provide a platform for students to appreciate art. Spring 2023 art poetry fiction Nonfiction Thank you for visiting our website. The Bellwether Review is a literary journal that hopes to promote and inspire creativity amongst those not only at PCC Rock Creek, but throughout the community. We hope you take the time to review these great pieces that were sent in to us and selected for publication by our editorial team. Visit our Submissions page if you are interested in having your work considered for publication. Email us at bellwetherreview@gmail.com with any questions. Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, This edition of The Bellwether Review is special in two ways from previous editions. It is the first print edition to be published after the Covid-19 restrictions were lifted, and will be the first edition to be published alongside its online companion at bellwetherreview.com . Our editing team is honored and privileged to have witnessed the amazing levels of beauty, creativity, bravery, thought, and emotion infused by the Contributors into all of their submissions. Each piece was reviewed, discussed, and carefully selected by us with you, and a profound respect for the act of artistic creation, in mind. The Bellwether Review is created by the students of Portland Community College for the purpose of being enjoyed by all it can reach, and the editorial team would like to thank you for exploring and enjoying the contributions of our fellow students contained within these pages. With gratitude, The 2023 Editorial Team Copyright © 2023 Portland Community College Portland Community College reserves all rights to the material contained herein for the contributors’ protection. On publication, all rights revert to the respective authors and artists.

My Last Malika Bailey This is the last - the last screw sealing the barrier between my truths and your lies. The last vowels stuttered out of ashen lips too afraid to confront the violation of my rights. But it is not the last ounce of love I hold for it trickles steady as a stream flowing down into the Orinoco Delta, where the disregarded - honeyed remnants of me, settle in the wetlands. This is the last time I lay bare for the minimum because this last hour I promised myself that my worth, like those of my ancestors whose flesh became stocks on a market so grim, has a price that can’t be bought and was molded within me - to last. Malika Bailey Malika is currently pursuing a degree in science. Whether it be mapping the ocean floor or surveying plants and various creatures, learning about our ecosystem is a passion of hers. It is this passion that propels her into making art from song to dance to poetry. She turns to her ancestors for ancient wisdom to remember what it means to be in balance and learn the skills needed to thrive. Inspired by the elements, she merges the tangible with the unspoken hoping to create something beautiful.

Little Night Monserratt Sandoval The crickets host a party, but I'm never invited. So instead I climb up the steep hill. The swift sand spills between my toes as I approach the bridge. Two beams flash across my face from the headlights of a sputtering car that should've been retired long ago. Gleams of sweat gently slide down my temples. It's nearly pitch black, but the sun's fury is still near. Now the road lies still...The crickets turn up the music. All the tienditas have closed their garages and the sleeping street dogs pant, wishing for a cooler night. I cross the road and descend from the hill. My feet almost fly off the ground as I dash through the night, back to the sand beneath my feet. My heart pounds, screaming at my ears. In the back there's soft laughter being lifted through the air. A warm glow slowly spreads across my face. I squint my eyes to see all my tíos and tías looking at me. I walk past the open gate onto the uneven cement of the so-called driveway. Smells of instant coffee and fresh pan dulce engulf everyone's words. Pupils dilate, as my eyes fixate on an ojo de buey. The front door step lies empty, so there I sit. Watching mouths give and return conversations, I take a bite into my bread. Monserratt Sandoval My name is Monserratt Sandoval, I am a Mexican-American and am currently 18 years of age. I’ve always appreciated art from a young age, and couldn’t wait to start creating my own artwork. Other than one class in senior year high school, this is my first art class in PCC. Here is where I first really used charcoal in my artwork, which I quickly fell in love with, as it can be found in a lot of my pieces. I enjoy creating observational pieces, like See Through and Self Portrait, which showcases my dining table and backyard door, and myself. I also wanted to shine a light on new perspectives in my work on different lives, which is how the inspiration of Our Life came to be. This piece is one that I hold close to my heart. I also enjoy writing, taking great inspiration from my own life experiences.

Under Moon Flowers Moonrose Doherty Under these moon flowers I let you go I tasted you Savored you on my tongue Felt your warm hug —when you used to pull me to your chest When you used to laugh to the sky with me. When you used to... A nest of cedar roots A dragonfly loving me A pinkish-orangish sky Dusk held us gently When you saw me When the cracks let light shine through When we weren’t exhausted yet When sunset shades held magic When we smiled across a pit of ashes A place where our arms intertwined like a spruce and a hemlock growing together Where lightening ran through us Moonrose Doherty Moonrose is a Queer, Non-binary/Genderfluid Poet, Farmer, Plant lover and Knowledge-Sharer who loves dancing with other humans or alone on the edge of a bay while talking with seagulls. Their friends say they're an artist and a creative who spreads inspiration and love of life. Moonrose sees themself as a constantly changing being that feels most at home when expressing and embodying for change.

Nehalem's Pocket Hunter Bordwell-Gray Each August is a departure past the paint of highway lines, where the concrete turns to gravel on a path unfolding into fathomless greenery. On those old silt roads a truck window becomes your aperture into the wilds, rife with little wonders known solely to the wood and stone. Like that truss bridge slumbering above the riverbed. Overgrowth climbs its steel lattice forever held in decommission. Perhaps it found some peace at last among the same flora it once defaced. A bridge in good company. Like that bucket of crawdads, stirring in thoughtless orbit of a container they cannot define, until a nameless fisherman can come to collect their prize. Granted they have a mind to return at all. Like that old silt road, A monument of impossible distance that can’t help but spark the question “How could anyone build this?” A question more valuable than its answer. To name its mystery is to break it when all I wish to find is peace in the unknown. Hunter Bordwell-Gray I am a lifelong Portland resident and a first-year Creative Writing/Poetry student at PCC. I started my journey in elementary school, intricately crafting my first novel on a rundown laptop…as far as a 10 year old could stay entertained before chasing the next shiny idea. Since then, I have delved into the realms of poetry, tabletop campaign writing, and multimedia production. For me, writing is the only medium that allows me to clearly convey my ideas and experiences to other people where otherwise I sometimes struggle to express myself. I take much of my inspiration from a hodgepodge of nature, analog horror podcasts, and the roulette wheel that is my taste in music.

Nicole Jette’-Sarwar is a PCC student who contributed four artworks, Untitled 1812, Self Portrait 19, Baghdad 1995.53 , and Baghdad 1991.51 —which happens to be this year’s cover of The Bellwether Review. With creative juices and ADHD running through her veins, 20 year old Emily Miller finds joy in many artistic endeavors; writing, photography, painting, crocheting, and many other hobbies take up her time. She was beyond excited to have her story "At The Rooftop Garden" and painting "Botanische Malarei" accepted in this year's journal. With an open mind, and plenty of inspiration, she's excited to see what the future holds for her. Emily wants to thank you, reader, for taking the time to look at her art and story, and hopes you have a good day! Instagram chillyourbiscuits.com “I make art to tell imaginative visual stories. My stories are inspired by my experiences, passion for art, architecture, and other cultures. I am compelled by the creative process because it is teeming with uncertainty.” Wayne Wilburn was born in Detroit MI and grew up in Santa Fe NM. He lived and worked in the Republic of South Africa for 8 years. As an American Creative his solo and collaborative projects in photography and art explore dualities to express personal and cultural ethos. His efforts in architecture include sustainable design work in the American Southwest and the Republic of South Africa. He earned a BA in Architecture in 1986 and Masters of Architecture in 1993 from the University of New Mexico. LinkedIn Facebook Website Monserratt Sandoval is a Mexican-American and 18 years of age. She's always appreciated art from a young age, and couldn’t wait to start creating her own artwork. Other than one class in senior year high school, this was her first art class in PCC. Here is where she first really used charcoal in her artwork, which she quickly fell in love with, as it can be found in a lot of her pieces. She enjoys creating observational pieces, like See Through and Self Portrait, which showcases her dining table and backyard door, and herself. She also wanted to shine a light on new perspectives in her work on different lives, which is how the inspiration of Our Life came to be. This piece is one that she holds close to her heart. She also enjoys writing, taking great inspiration from her own life experiences. Jovie Portillo was born in EL Salvador. They moved to the U.S. when they were 11 years old. E ver since they were a child they were totally fascinated by the natural world, and began drawing and painting as they became a little older. Jovie started at PCC in order to complete an associates degree in Radiography, but once they began their journey they realized that art is what they wanted to pursue instead of the medical field. Jovie has always been in awe of the majesty and beauty of nature, they usually find themselves in the woods or at the beach wondering and contemplating the nature of reality, usually receiving deep insights which then produce a rush in them to transpose those insights in to beautiful works of art so that others can appreciate the beauty and joyful news of what they see. Remus Dublin is both a writer and a visual artist. The pieces Remus submitted are generally more abstract than they tend to lean toward, with a higher focus on self-expression, and mental health. Remus struggles with theirs, and the art in all three of their piec es display themes of depression, and the concept of self-liberation when operating within the confinement of expectation, which is something they are likely overly cognizant of, but are quite passionate about. Remus wanted to represent the surrealism of self-care when accessibility and support is often so absent, (and when it is present, often so inadequate). Bailey Moore contributed two artworks; Untitled inspired by Dufy and Untitled October to The Bellwether Review’s 2023 issue. Zada Smutz is currently a freshman at PCC. They have been doing art practically all their life and hope to one day go into tattooing as a profession. When it comes to work, they love to experiment with different materials and styles, but are most fond of ink. Zada loves the range of lines you can get from it and how you can get so many values from just adding a bit of water. Their work has always been a way for them to express how they are feeling and tend to translate that through the quality of the lines. They can be clean and refined or they can be scratchy and unpolished but either way, Zada finds that they show character. They see it as the voice of the artist, like how it can be found in writing and music. Instagram @daturaarts

Nonfiction Admete Sean P. Hotchkiss A Recipe for Disaster Amy Smith Tell Your Goldfish You Love Him Charlie Divine Twilight Corryn Pettingill

Northwest Natalie Alsdorf Washington, we felt free, bounding like fawns along the wet sand at dawn, mist in our wind-swept hair, reflections of the sea painted on our sunglasses. Jeans– a misguided choice, cuffed, soaked through with salt and glass leaving our legs smooth and speckled. Ladybugs more likely to drown than us, despite our parents’ warnings. Despite stories of others’ drowning where we stood. Plans of morning runs in tank tops were spoiled by sleep as the stuffy humidity begged my window to open, harsh breeze while you try to dream, and a song of time gone slipped from my eyes, whisked away by fog and fray. Natalie Alsdorf I am currently 19 years old and have spent most of my life in western Colorado. Besides my time in Oregon the past year and a half (for which I am so grateful), I consider myself a Coloradan at heart and felt called to move back to the colorful, sunny state. Most of my inspiration for my work is derived from nature, my faith, and the human experience. I enjoy sunrise runs, cat snuggles, writing (and re-writing) late at night, and listening to audiobooks and music. I hope to become a published fiction author in the future and am taking my goal one day, and one word, at a time. @nataliealsdorf (Instagram)

When the Bough Breaks Alli Tschirhart T he air was thick with hot humidity. I wiped a bead of sweat from my upper lip as I entered the apartment. It was not much cooler inside, but any relief from the sun was welcomed. I called to my wife as I slipped off my shoes. “Naomi,” I said. “I’m home.” No response. I walked to her usual perch, the living room couch. It was empty except for the book opened like a butterfly, spine pointed towards the air. “Naomi.” I said again, this time more assertive. I heard giggles in response. I walked to the bathroom where they seemed to be coming from and opened the door. She jumped, startled by my presence. She was laying in the bath, covered in soapy bubbles, and our black cat, Brontes, laying on her chest. “What is going on here?” My face tried its best to hide its disgust. She didn’t bother looking at me as she spoke, just continued petting Brontes. “Well, I was sitting in the bath and he was looking at me like he usually does. I called to him and he just climbed in. Isn’t that so cute of him?” As if to prove her point she used her hand to scoop up some of the bubbles to put on his head and laughed. My eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think it’s a good idea to bathe with him? Isn’t it just… a little strange?” “You wouldn’t understand.” She scoffed at me, saying what had become her mantra as of late. I looked at them for a few moments longer before making my way to the kitchen. Behind the boxes of generic cereal hid my vice, a half-opened bottle of Jim Beam. I poured into a coffee mug to avoid any unwanted lectures before I drank a mouthful and breathed out a sigh of release. On the countertop was a picture I couldn’t bear to see, every time I was in its vicinity it was like a hole was burned deep in my chest. We’d gotten Brontes when we first moved to this apartment. We’d moved to a new city, hotter than we had ever experienced before. When I was at work, she was stuck home save for the few days the school called her in to substitute teach. I wanted to help cure her loneliness, and she had talked about having a cat as a child and the happiness he had brought her. She’d loved him at first glance. If it were up to me, I would’ve gone for a more conventionally cute cat, but she said she always loved sad looking things. He was skinny, shiny, and black. He had been in some kind of accident before the shelter received him that took his right eye. The same accident had messed with his jaw, so one of his teeth jutted from his mouth perpetually. He had become very attached to her since his introduction to our family. It started off with him clawing at the bathroom door when she was in there, sometimes so hard it sounded like a banging. Bam, bam, bam. He would sleep between us at night, with her armed wrapped tightly around him. I’d offered to get him a nice bed next to her on the floor but she has refused. The first time I tried to pet him, he stepped back, almost like he smelled something he didn’t like. I tried again, and he bared his teeth at me with a hiss. Our relationship had never been mended and he spent his time with me watching me with a scornful eye. I sat down in front of the television and absentmindedly flipped through the channels. I landed on the news, the weather report called for heavy rain and possible power outages. My cup ran empty and I refilled it in the kitchen. Naomi stepped into the kitchen as I was walking back to the couch. I jumped, startled by her sudden presence. Lately, we rarely occupied the same space. “I’m going to bed now.” She said, a white towel covered her body and another wrapped around her hair. In her arms was Brontes, swaddled in a pink towel, not even looking at me, just staring at her face. “I’ll be there soon,” I responded as I sat back on the couch. She padded towards our room, gushing to the cat in her arms. My stomach was now warm and my body felt heavy, but in the way that I like. I craved the numbness alcohol provided. The nightly news ended and I stumbled my way to the room. I didn’t drink enough to get drunk, just enough to feel the buzz. She was still awake when I arrived, which was unusual. We both tried our best to stay away from each other lately. She was sitting up in bed playing with Brontes, who was lying on his back, paws up above his head. My god, I thought. She’s tickling him. They both looked at me like a deer in headlights. The second I saw the eye, that damned eye, something shifted inside of me. All the anger that I had repressed came bubbling up to the surface and spewed from my mouth like sour beer. “I wish you loved me like you do that damn cat,” I mumbled. Her smiling face contorted to anger. “What did you say?” “I said I wish loved me like you do that damn cat,” I said, sharply. “That damn cat? He’s everything to me.” “I thought I was everything to you,” I retorted. She looked at me with disdain. “Every time you look at me, it’s with disgust. I just wish you would’ve latched on to me after everything instead of the cat. I need you too.” “You need me? You weren’t even there, Dominic. I needed you and you weren’t there!” Tears welled in my eyes. “I thought you said you wouldn’t hold it against me! I had to go, for my job. I didn’t want to leave my pregnant wife home alone. But, what was I supposed to do? They needed me. We could’ve never kno—” “They needed you? I was the one bleeding. I was the one laying in that hospital. I was the one who was alone when they told me we lost her.” She was yelling now. “Please. Every night I fall asleep with tears in my eyes. I think about her, about how you must have felt that day. Please don’t use that against me. You promised you never would.” I pleaded. “It’s not something I could ever forget. I know I said that, but it’s so hard to look at you and not think of that horrible day. Even when I came home, you just let me be alone.” “I only did that because I thought you needed space. You told me to give you some time. Do you know how badly I wanted to be there with you, holding you, instead of you holding him.” I said, sourly. “Please, stop making everything about Brontes. This is about us! I couldn’t look at you, let alone touch you. I’m still healing. My body is still healing. I look at my sagging stomach and think to myself, ‘you couldn’t even house a child, the thing women are built for. You are a disgrace.’” She was crying. I reached out to her, holding onto her arms. “You did nothing wrong. The doctor said it was the chromosomes. There was no way for the baby to be born.” She laid her head on my chest. “I love you so much. If there was anything I could do to make your pain go away, I would in an instant. I’m so sorry for not being there. I wish I could go back to change that. But, I can’t. Please just forgive me.” I sobbed. She raised her head and looked deeply into my eyes. Her gaze scared me, it felt empty. She smiled at me. “I forgive you, Dominic. I just want us to be the way we were before. I just want a baby more than anything in the world.” “I will do anything in my power to give you what you want.” I kissed her, a deep passionate kiss. And, for the first time since the miscarriage, I held her in my arms tightly, afraid to let go. We drifted off to sleep with our bodies pressed against each other. That night I dreamt of blood. So much blood pooled at my feet and reached my ankles, rising steadily. I tried to run but the liquid slowed my step, it was now at my belly. Naomi was next to me, still pregnant, looking at the floor wondering what was going on. I tried to scream, to yell at her to run, to get away, but the thick warm liquid coated my lips, my tongue, and my throat. I awoke out of breath. My forehead was slick with sweat and I felt as though I had just taken a run. I walked into the bathroom and flicked the lightswitch. Nothing happened. I tried a few more times before I realized the power was out. Outside thunder boomed so loudly it shook the house. I returned to the bed and realized I was alone in the room. I felt a sense of panic as I slipped on clothes and grabbed my phone plugged in beside my bed. As I reached the hallway, I saw light under a door. I walked to the door and took a deep breath. The battery operated mobile twinkled its song as stars danced around the room. There were candles lit enough for me to see the room was just how I’d last seen it, the crib in the center of the room with pink blankets and plush toys inside. The walls were egg shell white with decals spelling out our dead daughter’s name hung up for display. If I were to open the drawers, I would find baby clothes and diapers we haven’t had the courage to go through. My heart was beating fast at what I was seeing. Naomi was sat in the rocking chair, swaying back and forth, softly singing with the mobile. In her arms was Brontes, wrapped in a blanket, his face in her chest. “Naomi, what’s going on?” I was nervous for the answer. “Dominic!” She smiled at me. “I’m so glad you are here. I had the most wonderful dream last night. Before I fell asleep last night, I watched you sleep. When I was looking at you, I thought about everything we talked about. I thought about her, about Stephanie, and I thought about our loss.” My heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name. I braced myself with the door frame, gripping it so tightly, my fingertips turned ghost white. “I thought about everything. About how I felt this— I don’t know— resentment because I had to miscarry alone. But, as I was sleeping, I dreamt of Stephanie. Only, she didn’t look like her. She told me, ‘Momma, I’m in heaven but I sent somebody else for you.’ I didn’t know what that dream was. I woke up and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about her.” To my horror, I realized then that her breast was out. There was blood trickling down into her shirt. The cat was nestled close to her body, his face pressed against her breast, suckling. My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor and buried my face inside my hands. “Don’t you see Dominic? God sent me a baby, he just doesn’t look like us.” Her voice rang in my ears. Alli Tschirhart Alli Tschirhart has moved around a lot in her life, but is glad to call Portland her home. She writes fiction and nonfiction. This will be her first published work, but hopefully not the last. She will be attending PSU in the future for a degree in English and Writing. She enjoys reading and her three cats. @allitschirhart (Instagram)