to birth is to release

I am birthing my mother. She is traveling swiftly, just as her own children swam down from her womb.  Me, with the summer window open. My sister, almost from the edge of a chair. Both July babies. I think it’s time.

“You are likely depressed,” said the professional. I laugh at myself. Leaping over boundaries like always, I thought I was just tired.

I am birthing my mother because if you talk of the wonders of your own, I begin to dilate.  Fists, and wailing contraction.

I am birthing my mother because random actions are not so.  You can gut me unintentionally with one, swift choice.  Please. Now. An epidural.

This is not the first time I have birthed a parent.  I once let go the strong hand of my father.  He is carried in love a little differently now.  Turn off the incubator.

Do you know what it takes to grieve a living parent? My chest flaps like an open envelope.

Please. Sign the card for me. My hands are tight on these rails.

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