I stood in the entryway staring at that jacket while our daughter rolled beneath my ribs.
Then I remembered the porch.
Six months into the pregnancy, before Mark became too weak to sit outside for long, we had spent evenings there talking about the baby.
He would rest his hand on my belly and wait patiently for her to kick.
He loved that.
The first time he felt her move, he laughed so loudly I told him he was going to scare her.
After he learned he was dying, the porch changed.
We still sat there.
We still talked.
But every ordinary conversation had something underneath it that neither of us wanted to name.
One night, while our daughter moved against his palm, Mark told me what he wanted done after his death.
“If my organs are still healthy enough when the time comes, I want them donated.”
I had looked away because I could not stand hearing the words while she was kicking.
