The Empty Crib at the End of the World
by Beth Cato
“How terrible it will be for women who are pregnant or who are nursing babies in those days!”
Matthew 24:19
“Aaron turned three months old on the day the world ended,” Jessie said. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll still be alive on his first birthday. I don’t know how we made it this long.” She kept the baby pressed between her breasts and knees and she leaned forward to poke at the fire with rebar. The flames softly crackled in return, illuminating the older woman sitting across the fire.
“He was born into a better world than this,” Leticia said, sighing and rubbing her grey hands together.
“He was.” Jessie stared into the flames and into a world that had ceased to be. “You should have seen his room. It was perfect. I did it all myself since Max was deployed for most of the pregnancy. The walls were painted a sunny yellow like lemonade, and I stitched these matching curtains in pastel green with little rocking horses and white rickrack on the bottom. I even put the crib together myself, even though I can’t tell a Philips from a Norelco or whatever those screwdrivers are called.”
“I’m sure it was lovely.”
“It was.”
Aaron arched his back, and Jessie pulled him from her teat with a wince. She set the baby on the soiled towel for his tummy time, such as it was, on this half-moldy tile in some former restaurant with a roof split wide to the starless sky. They had set a line of bricks like a makeshift playpen to keep him from the fire.