The day we saw the faint pink line on that test you stole
from work I slammed the door in my own face so hard it shook my walls.
I slammed the door, locked all three locks then shoved a
heavy old dresser in front and walked in the opposite direction for three days
until I forgot about myself.
I would be foolish to say our baby is the most wanted
creature this world has ever known, but I do believe she's up there. And make no
mistake I am humbled with gratefulness.
Still, the thing about doors is the crack at the top, the
space at the bottom where the hallway light shines in, where things get in. And
locks most often have keys, and heavy dressers can be pushed aside.
I started to write promising myself to be honest.
I twist the handle carefully as I walk in, like I’m entering
a sacred place. Your bed is made, the baskets that will hold your toys are empty,
your closet holds a couple of outfits that were given to us. I take them out sometimes
and smell the fabric as if your smell is already on them. This room still feels
like a foreign place in our home, hard to understand that we will soon look
back and not know what life was like before you. I feel you kicking but there’s
still a distance between us, maybe partly the layers of flesh and fluid and
partly my own distance in not being able to carry you.
Most nights I sing Swedish lullabies to you, teaching your
mom what the words mean. I hope you can hear us. And if you hear me singing
bluegrass in the car I’m sorry, I hope you get your other mom’s singing voice!
