Before my appointment in November, I bought Ben and Jerry’s because I had a feeling.
My pre-emptive grief started to gather, turning into words and then sentences.
I wrote, “I’m too familiar with what forced neutrality looks like on an ultrasound tech’s face,”
Wrote, “I’m too familiar with what happens next,”
Wrote, “the orange bottle of pills meant to help my body expel a failed dream.”
I wrote and wrote and wrote and then I held my breath.
But the tech’s face had nothing to hide and my doctor tossed a casual, “looks good” over his shoulder as if I hadn’t packed a suitcase full of grief.
I’m still unpacking that suitcase, still afraid my anxiety might be intuition, afraid too much joy will lead to a sorrow too expansive.
But you, my Lennon girl, are kicking my ribs and pushing against my lungs. You are here, at least for now, but hopefully to stay, and I am telling myself to stop missing things before I have to. The sun will set, but still it touches my skin.
So, I’ll delete the “for nows,”, stop cowering beneath a blanket of caveats, and whisper: you are here, you are here, you are here, my girl, and I love you.