1923
330 Words
1923
Thirty-six hours she was in the coming. The pain of pushing my insides out, pain cutting me to blood. Two nights and a live-long day with no one to talk to. All I had was a cross old nun saying every few hours I'd be another while yet and getting annoyed with me because she wanted to be in her bed.
Curses to the Lord. Curses on curses and pain on pain, for a night and a day and another long night. And when she finally came, she didn't come easy. Push. Push again. Push, for God's sake, push would you, push I said, push can't you? Push.
At the very last, when I could do no more, Child took over herself.
"It's coming, it's coming," said the nun. Out my daughter slithered in a rush of blood.
She was given to me and — oh! — all curled over, she was, from being inside me, her back curved like a bowl and her hands and feet like little cups. A black downy head on her. Arms and legs purple and fleshy. Bits of my body and blood stuck to her.
And her eyes. Open so wide they seemed half the size of her face. I couldn't take my own off them. They drew me in.
"Look how she's looking at me," I said to the nun.
"Don't fool yourself," she said. "Newborns see nothing for weeks."
She was wrong. I was being seen and it was opening my own eyes wide too.
Too wide.
They cut the cord. All for the best, they said. Hush now, stop now, all for the best now.
They took her away as my bosoms were filling. Your milk's come in, the auld nurse said, when I told of the pain in them. Full hard fit to burst, longing for little lips to ease them.
And beneath, my belly was shrinking, closing in round the space where she used to be. And me, leaking. Oozing from every soft spot in my body, blood and milk and tears.
Spill
- Writer
