Dear Unknown (letter from a mother to her unborn child) I hadn’t even named you yet. Some nights I wake up in a cold sweat, feeling your tiny fingerprints all over me like monsoon rain, fading away like invisible ink when the flashlight is removed. On those mornings, I don’t allow anyone else to touch me for fear they’ll cover up your hands. I had never been afraid of ghosts until you. Now I live with one in my stomach. You must understand, I was shackled to the stars; I felt I had no other choice, that if I let you into this world, you would be chained to the North Star too, like a dog. Not a day goes by that regret doesn’t leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ve eaten rotten eggs that tasted sweeter. On my days off from the cubicle where I work, I sneak down to the hospital and stare in through the glowing windows at the bassinets where you would have been born; the thought of you trails me like a shadow. Those are the days I worry the most about cops, as if someone else on some other side of town has filed a missing person’s report and soon a patrol car will come by to arrest me for your murder. According to Greek myth, humans first came into the world with four arms and legs and two faces, but Zeus split them in two, and they spent the rest of their lives looking for their missing halves. I am still looking for you, underneath my bed, in the closet, in bathroom stalls at work. You must understand, I love you now, but you were made with someone I hated. I wish love and hate could coexist, could become friendly enemies, but you were the only war ever fought inside me. if I could go back, I wouldn’t fight against you, I would fight for you. I would name you Aadi, or “beginning” in French, so we could start over: both of us, this time. -Rain
Posted on: Sat, 17 Aug 2013 06:06:12 +0000