She is a frightening thing.
I sit on a curved purple velvet couch with a steep padded back. I wait for her eyes to close before peaking over the upholstered wall. No one notices her or me. And so it is then, inside the mystifying maze of my dream state, that I turn the babe around and begin to send her back in from whence she came, up between my legs --as if she isn't done yet.
I wake before her head enters. I roll onto my side and sink into the soft pillows of my childhood room. The sun curves around the canary colored walls and warms me. I slide my fingers over the firm fruit that flattens my belly button and wonder if anyone else has ever dreamed that dream.
The nights are strangest. Most mornings, I wake with a specific expectancy for a flat fetus-free belly. As if she is just air I might fart out. My fear of losing her through sheet flapping and sleepy rollovers extends to my worry of complications; of extended hospital stays where they don't know what's wrong just that something isn't right. During the days, I think about names, diapers and how my folds will hold sweat in July. I still stand naked in the bathroom mirror, staring at the sight of nature making a person inside my person. It is fascinating and weird.
He gives me grapes, pickles and a fresh flower bouquet for Mother's Day. He writes a card that carves a lump into my throat and causes my lips to land on his. He is so excited to be a father. He wants to be the first to call me a mother. He isn't, but he is the first to weigh and water the word with love.
Tonight, as I sit wondering, she swims and drinks the watermelon juice I have eaten for supper. I have a cough and a nose that clogs and overflows like an abused toilet. I hope I don't embarrass her too much.
I wonder what it'll feel like to see her and know that I would never send her back in....even if she is a bit busted looking.