A New Place

I think I see that fertility lasts about the right amount of time. There is wisdom in the design. At a certain point, you are so tired you start to think, “It’s ok. It can go.” You begin to entertain the idea that this set of downy little cheeks puffing out sweet breaths on the pillow beside you is the last set. I suppose eventually you begin to writhe less at what you see looking back at you in the mirror. The softness on which they laid their heads is sweet, but its going starts to be less terrifying and heart-breaking. Because going on like this becomes less and less feasible. 

I can see that someone could feel this way. I myself am still holding onto a name we might call our next baby, if he comes, (or she, in which case we’ll need a different name.) But I’m stubborn. It won’t be too much longer for me, and I’ll let go. It won’t be bad to let myself fall, drifting down into a new and unknown place, like my friend who stopped coloring her hair. “It’s not bad to be old,” she said.

I see the auburn in her hair gradually fading, fading, and I see her children and their vibrancy growing, growing.  It’s odd that, sinking down as she lifts them up, she seems to grow more beautiful. I’m pretty sure she’ll end up so beautiful people will want to live in her heart.