Glottal

Hehehe hooooo.

They don’t teach lamaze anymore. Do they?

Our breath brings them into the world, we hope breath is what takes them out.

After we’re long gone.

Peacefully in their beds.

Years and years and year and years from now.

My breath. I can’t get it under me. The steady pace is gone. I have not ran. I have not stretched. I have not done anything much at all. It just catches now. Something creeping into my bones.

Folding laundry.

Wiping down the kitchen counter.

Rubbing tiny cheeks.

When I stop to think…. I just try not to. Think, that is. Which is not like me. I live in my brain.

The body responds when the mind shuts off.

Shortened breath.

Trapped inhales.

Pained exhales.

Fear.

We all breathe. Every one of us. Until we don’t.

I can feel the breath being knocked out of parents who kissed their children good bye not knowing the significance of the exchange.

I can feel the breath of mothers as they hug their kids too tight.

I feel our kids not knowing why they are being grabbed a little harder. Kissed a little longer. Watched a little closer.

Precious. Dear. Beloved.

The weight of our collective breath being held and exhaled more deeply and shakily.

It’s hard not to feel hopeless. A country away but attached at the hip.

Ideology is borderless on the same device I use to type these words.

So enraged by political unrest, but also so scared. What is at play? Why is so much being threatened to be taken away?

This didn’t happen to me. But I feel. I can imagine. I want to keep my humanity. I can’t let it corrode. I hold on.

Good versus evil. But everyone’s perception of each... A prism. We are fragmented. Distorted.

I feel the madness getting to us. Trauma on top of trauma. The fear and uncertainty of these days. These times. These years. We can’t catch our breath before the next blow hits. We weather storms of nature. Of emotions. Of wombs. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Count. Ground.

In the ground. Babies.

Make dinner.

I put too much on her plate. I want her to try everything. I want her to have it all. All of what matters. Sustenance. Enough.

Wipe her down. Bathe her. Read the bears. Sound machine on. I hope her dreams are sweet.

I never cared for babies. Until I had my own.

I watch mothers now. Their eyes.

Watch a mother watch her child.

The specialist. Oracles knowing what happens before it happens. Knowing the backs of tiny hands as if they were our own.

To never hold those hands again?

Ah ha huhhh.

No.

Wipe down the high chair.

Fold the laundry.

A country away. A pain too close to home.

Thoughts and prayers. Thoughts and prayers.

In and out. In and out.