If we were having coffee, we’d be sitting around my dinner table, morning light drifting through the window. I’d offer you some cream, and we’d munch on toast with jam, the seeds in the bread sticking to our fingers. I’d take a sip from my purple mug, and tell you that I was unsettled by Mother’s Day this year, but not for the reasons you might expect.
As I was washing dishes the other day, sunk deep below the surface of my thoughts, a truth about myself took shape, and it caught me off-guard.
I want to have children someday, and I’m afraid of that want.
For a long time, I was afraid that I would lose track of my goals if I became a parent. But now, the fear has shifted. What will happen to me if I don’t carry my children to term? I’m afraid that I will be at odds with my body, horrified by the way that life and death take up residence in my womb.
Mother’s Day. The mothers whose children survive are the ones who are celebrated. But what about the mothers whose children are silent? I’m afraid my children will quicken inside me, but never know what it is to live.
You and I are quiet, our cups almost empty. The trees drop their seeds outside, and it looks like springtime snow.