Margot swims in the dark. Stirs in the black lagoon while I sleep, flutters against my ribs and abs and bladder. Her head rubs against my cervix, a strange place I’ve never felt before. Never been before. She will be the only one to visit, her tiny skull rocking to Nirvana, stilling when I sing along. As if she’s embarrassed of me before she’s even born.
Everything about pregnancy has lived in this foggy, gradient space. The frustratingly drab, brown maze of the Labyrinth. A coastline barely visible between the crashing surf and clouds that pull at your hair. Driving in the dark. There is something there, a point of origin and destination, a road that needs to be followed. But no way of seeing it until you have to take each turn.
Like a pearl in a clamshell, I will see the end result, but the growth is utterly secret. Something hidden away and unknowable by anyone, including Margot. She will forget her under-skin palace, her warm cocoon, her growing place. Any memories of the black lagoon quickly replaced with the blurry images of momma and daddy, of the smell of Daphne’s fluffy dog fur and the tickle of Sherlock’s curious cat tongue. Recorded over with the words for chair, door, light, pizza, chocolate. Overwritten with emotions she won’t know how to name or process but will feel with every fiber of her tiny being. It will start small: tired, hungry, wet, lonely. Then, just as the pearl grow bigger so will the feelings. Love, dislike, frustration, guilt, joy. After: pleasure connected with her favorite things, people, activities; hatred masking the unmet needs she’ll be too young to verbalize; disbelief at being dismissed or ignored because she is young or a woman or both.
All of this will happen inside her, one grain of sand at a time. One irritation, one drop of excitement, one confusion. She will forget the black lagoon.
— jthrill
Everything about pregnancy has lived in this foggy, gradient space. The frustratingly drab, brown maze of the Labyrinth. A coastline barely visible between the crashing surf and clouds that pull at your hair. Driving in the dark. There is something there, a point of origin and destination, a road that needs to be followed. But no way of seeing it until you have to take each turn.
Like a pearl in a clamshell, I will see the end result, but the growth is utterly secret. Something hidden away and unknowable by anyone, including Margot. She will forget her under-skin palace, her warm cocoon, her growing place. Any memories of the black lagoon quickly replaced with the blurry images of momma and daddy, of the smell of Daphne’s fluffy dog fur and the tickle of Sherlock’s curious cat tongue. Recorded over with the words for chair, door, light, pizza, chocolate. Overwritten with emotions she won’t know how to name or process but will feel with every fiber of her tiny being. It will start small: tired, hungry, wet, lonely. Then, just as the pearl grow bigger so will the feelings. Love, dislike, frustration, guilt, joy. After: pleasure connected with her favorite things, people, activities; hatred masking the unmet needs she’ll be too young to verbalize; disbelief at being dismissed or ignored because she is young or a woman or both.
All of this will happen inside her, one grain of sand at a time. One irritation, one drop of excitement, one confusion. She will forget the black lagoon.
— jthrill
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