My Cardboard Balcony

This Candlestick by Belinda Roddie This candlestick is my only hope of sight in this room when wires have frayed and lights have dwindled down to nothing as the shove of wind and rain hinders brightness these nights. I strike a match and bring the flame up close to the short wick, praying the thing will catch and give me just a little bit of glow as I maneuver through the house to latch the doors and shut the windows. Sure enough, the candle flares, and I see my pale, stark complexion in the mirror. A single puff of air threatens to make the whole space dark again. But I let the stub burn and wax stick to my fingers as the storm attacks.

“We need to take a urine sample to make sure you’re not pregnant,” intoned the nurse, looking half-asleep as she perused my clipboard. “No need,” I interjected. “I’m not pregnant.” “But are you sure? Some women don’t know they’re pregnant until they check.” “I’m infertile. Never been able to have kids,” I pointed out, getting somewhat frustrated. “Not pregnant.” “But it says you have a partner on your sheet…” “Yes. Partner. Female partner. Not pregnant. Not possible. No test. I can't have kids. I'm sterile. And I'm done here.”