To all women who care for birth…
The hands, not hers, clasped in the lap, while teardrops roll down the pale face. The pain she feels in a body not her own, the words she speaks that shine in the darkness of doubts, opening a glimmer of hope in this night of the flesh. The fatigue that feels like hers, the same questions she once made for herself. The need to scream—an imperative in her own opened mouth, and the lament that groans in the looks she gets. Time that passes slowly, like a little ship on the horizon approaching the harbor with the slowness of centuries. The sneaky time hiding behind the clock, sly and pretending to be paralyzed. And the sound of herself, that silences in her throat yet is audible in every pain, every wave and every move.
She looks, watches, weeps, nurtures, and enjoys a joy that is not hers, a pain that she builds for herself, draining it from the sister by her side, who moves, transmutes, leaves the cocoon and emerges.
“Yes, she thinks. If anything I can give, may it be my silence. May my presence be diaphanous for you. If I have something to offer, may it be with my hope and my love. If I can ask for something, may I ask for the privilege of remaining with you now while, through your pains, you build the miracle of everyday life being made.“