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Lola, I called her. Her skin milky blue, her tiny fist curled around my hands. They let me hold her for a minute, let me bury my head into her yeasty body, still warm. She had the tiniest mouth, half closed, as if in mid yawn. The blanket they'd swaddled her in was lime green, which I thought was an odd color for a girl.

The nurse asked me if I wanted my husband to come in. No. I'm not sure if I spoke.

The room smelled heavily of antiseptic and blood. The sheets had been tossed, stripped, but I was still holding onto Lola. I held onto Lola even as the nurse started to reach for her, raking my fingernails down his freckled arms. I heard a cry and realized it was coming from my own chest.

My husband entered the room moments after Lola was gone. He was sipping coffee, black, and its aroma overwhelmed the room.

Leave, I told him.

Instead he rested his head on my shoulder and pointed out the window. Snow was falling in sheets, blanketing pothole filled roads.

If you watch, he told me, you can see each individual flake before it falls.