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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s