The Swaddling

‘I’m serious Ginny; please don’t get mixed up with him again!’ Tamsin pleaded, rocking her sister’s baby; as if this tiny life represented the sum of all possibilities; humans need humans. Ginny contemplated her buxom sister - Tamsin was always the more ‘mothering’ type, her hips announced it thus; whereas she seemed to lie in a continual state of malnourished fortitude. The baby was an accident; his force majeure; now she was considering going back to him; a devoir decision. She wanted - no - she needed male dominance, and Frank knew all about that; her sister could only offer a level playing field.
‘He’s no good Gin, I said that all along. Do you really want your babba surrounded by cigarette butts an’ old beer cans?’ Tamsin warned, aware of her sister’s quixotic vision when it came to men and that such a fragile creature would succumb; even to the detriment of her baby. Ginny shrugged. The baby didn’t mean anything to her, it was simply a crying egg that grew bigger and commandeered her life.
‘I know - you keep her! You’re better at it anyway!’ Ginny pronounced, before thrusting hands in her pockets adding shape to her stick body. Tamsin had already considered this in the early hours of morning; playing bonds-woman to the crying infant. The long wraps of the gray winding sheet, the swaddling, overwhelming desire to protect her sister, to bind her from herself; yet in the knowledge that she could save only one.