Sunday, November 18, 2012
I haven't been breathing.
I haven't really been breathing since.
Ha! I laughed, airlessly, as this tiny being cried into my ribs, coated and uncomfortable, his sounds echoing into the vacuum of my breathless torso.
Is it okay? I asked the woman peering over me. I don't know, she said, then quickly Yes. Yes. Of course it's okay. But I wasn't speaking of you.
Is it okay to feel as though you are a small nothingness, slipping off the side of the head of a pin, holding the most important thing you've ever seen. Is it okay to feel the weight of dumbness over you like clear waves, pressing you into the dark sand below. Is it okay to want to sleep forever wrapped in gasping fear and wisdom all at once. Is it okay to feel love tearing through yourself, like a sun burning up the clouds over the sea. Love is ripping each cell apart, the friction of newness explodes all neurons in fire and the smoke waters your eyes. And it's okay.
Can I take him home? I asked and they laughed, but I meant it. When can I leave and can it be right now and can we never leave home again? The world was already bored of snow that year and the path we took circled through the forest and past SCENIC LOT NUMBER 65. Once we saw a snow fox there, but not this time, probably because it heard us coming, all important and deafeningly breathless. All full of potential and worry.
And this is where your family sleeps, this is where we wait for frost and thaw, this is where we hold you, without the rise and fall of ribs for fear of waking from this fog. This is where your feet will grow, this is where the lights will glow deep into 4am one night, ears red with fury and the first stabbings of pain. This is where we soak in baths, and wait for sleep. Wait for sleep and wait for sleep.
I admit defeat and I opened my skull and I know nothing. I know everything about you and I know nothing else. You are the most important thing I've ever seen and some days I celebrate the fact that I don't understand you at all. I force myself to breathe. I remind myself to take air, I focus on the pattern, on the wheeze of my unused nose. I remember when it came easily to me. Breathing. Before there was you.