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.
Bring the Joy 