As our children are off running around the indoor playground we have sought refuge in, I disclose to my friend that I have never gardened before. With our new house and spring approaching, I ask for some tips on what to do about all the empty beds in our backyard. After an appraising look, she replies, “Don’t buy anything you can easily kill.”
we circle back
to the beginning
between dusk and dawn my therapist’s suggestions
he starts with
“I never told you . . .”
the day after
* * * * *
Lots of children in the waiting room today. It’s been a year and there have been some subtle changes. No more game shows on the tv. Instead there is a loop of meditative music set to nature images. A couple more plaques under the doctor’s names. Some new photo books. Just enough to remind me that my children have grown and it’ll be another year before I’m back here again.
turning gray I see myself in every mother
The nurse rattles off some questions. Any changes to your medical history? No. Any changes to your father’s health? Cancer. Your maternal grandmother still alive? No. Any concerns today? Yes. And she packs up and leaves. Business as usual.
exam room smoothing out the paper gown creases
I stare at the wallpaper while I wait. During one prenatal appointment my husband pointed out how the design looks like rows of uteruses. It’s all I can see now.
empty womb the distant cry of a hungry baby
My IUD has slipped and needs to be removed. The biggest question I face is who will watch the children.
stay-at-home mom asking permission to take a shower
On my way home, I joke about close calls with my friend who miscarried two months prior.
between black and white a story in every shade
* * * * *